


Dial T for Torchwood

by Orinoco_II



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Multi, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2019-09-29 08:46:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17200322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orinoco_II/pseuds/Orinoco_II
Summary: A stormy night, a hotel in the middle of nowhere, eccentric guests and a murder.  Everyone's a suspect and Torchwood must turn detective...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been watching too much Agatha Christie over Christmas...

Scrape-thump; scrape-thump; scrape-thump. The SUV’s windscreen wipers beat out a steady tempo. The rain drummed against the roof and the headlights caught the glistening hedgerow as the car came to a sudden, jerking halt at a junction that appeared unexpectedly out of the dusk come too early. The front fender jutted a foot over the give-way lines.

“Left or right?” Jack asked.

“Erm…” Owen frowned and twisted the map in his hands, orientating himself. He turned it through 180 degrees, elbow jabbing Jack in the cheek, map obscuring his vision. “Left.” His tone was far from certain. “I think.”

“If we keep turning left,” Ianto piped up from the backseat. “We’ll just go round in a circle.” Tosh, behind Owen, and Gwen, sandwiched between Tosh and Ianto, stayed wisely silent.

“We’re not going round in a circle, alright?” Owen snapped, turning the map even further round, twisting his arms into what would have been a painful knot if he could feel it. “It’s left.”

Jack pointedly pushed the map back over onto the passenger side and swung the SUV left into a lane that was barely wide enough for it. “You know, if you can’t read a map, you might have to give up shotgun rights,” he told Owen.

“I was fine with the SatNav,” he shot back, crumpling the map in a heap on his lap. “’Til we got this heap of junk.” He jabbed irritably at the device suckered to the windscreen.

“I kinda like Swedish, it’s got an interesting lilt to it,” Jack shrugged. “And if you will buy cut price electronics on eBay.”

“Seemed like a bargain at the time,” Owen grumbled. “I’m reporting that seller.”

Jack shook his head in amusement as he accelerated, sliding the SUV into fourth gear, overhanging branches and rambling brambles thwacking at the wing mirrors as they roared down the narrow lane. “How we doing back there Gwen?” he called.

“Uh.” Gwen tilted her head and checked the device on her lap. It was a small black box, no bigger than a matchbox, mounted on four angled legs which allowed it to be free-standing. On top of the box was a beacon, around two inches in length, which intermittently pulsed with a yellow light. The box itself was giving out a weak, infrequent pip. “Still beeping and flashing,” she confirmed.

Tosh clattered fingertips over the keyboard in front of her. “Signal is increasing in strength though,” she added. “Seems to be coming from a North Westerly direction.”

“Which direction are we headed?” Jack asked Owen.

“How should I know?” Owen fruitlessly attempted to refold the map and pinpoint their location. “I’ve got a map, not a compass.”

“South East,” Ianto announced, cheerfully waving a Silva Compass. Jack grinned at him in the rear-view mirror. “Be prepared. Learnt that in the Scouts.”

Owen twisted in his seat and scowled at him. “I was never in the Scouts.”

“Shame - we should have gone right at that junction,” Ianto added helpfully.

“Oh, you have the bloody map, Baden Powell.” Owen screwed up the map and lobbed it over his shoulder at Ianto, to protestations from Gwen who was treated to a face full of map.

Jack slammed on the brakes, crunched the SUV into reverse and backed up along the lane at a similar speed to that which he’d driven down it. Ianto calmly took control of the map, folded it to a manageable size and located their position. They arrived back at the junction where Jack swung round and raced off in the opposite direction.

Ianto traced the winding yellow lane with his finger. “Should be another right hand turn just after this next bend.”

“We’re getting closer,” Tosh announced, without looking up from her screen. The device did, indeed, seem to be flashing with more intensity.

Jack rammed the SUV into fifth gear and shot down a sudden, steep incline in the road. The device was going beserk now, the light flashing madly and the beeping stuttering frantically.

“Here!” Tosh shouted.

They were all thrown forward, thankful for their seatbelts, as Jack performed an exemplary emergency stop. The SUV skidded a few feet on the wet tarmac and came to a halt.

If nowhere had a middle, it seemed that the Torchwood team were in it. Five pairs of eyes peered out of the rain-streaked windows at the darkening night. Ianto rubbed clear a patch of condensation on his window with the cuff of his jacket and pressed his forehead against the glass. Stone walls lurked in the darkness and a small coppice of fir trees swayed ominously back and forth. 

Tosh consulted her computer again. “A few metres off to our left,” she explained.

Owen tapped his own window sceptically. “In that field?”

Tosh nodded and smiled brightly. “Yes, I’d say so.”

There was a pause and silence as they considered the issue and the persistent hammering of the rain on the SUV’s roof.

Ianto coughed quietly. “Did anyone else bring wellies?” he enquired smugly.

Owen laughed triumphantly. “Ha! Dropped yourself in it there, didn’t you, Mr ‘Be Prepared’? You can hop out in the rain whilst we wait here.”

“And for that Owen,” Jack informed him. “You can go too.”

“What?” Owen protested. “Why me? What about the others?”

“We need Tosh on the computer and Gwen…” Jack considered this. “Gwen didn’t laugh at Ianto.”

Gwen snorted and Owen swore, but he knew when he was beaten. He tentatively opened the passenger door only to have it whipped from his hand by the wind. Sighing heavily, he stepped out of the car where his shoes sank instantly into the soft mud of the verge.

“Shitting bollocks,” he swore again and slammed the car door shut, zipping his jacket up to his chin and thanking the deities that he couldn’t feel the cold any more.

“Come on Owen, where’s your spirit of adventure?” Ianto asked cheerfully, appearing from behind the SUV in his wellies and practical-looking waterproofs.

“How come it’s always pissing down with rain when I end up traipsing around the Welsh countryside with you?” Owen grumbled as they began to climb the gate into the field.

“Just lucky I guess,” Ianto responded chirpily.

They landed in the field and Owen’s feet sank even further into the mud. “Ugh.” He lifted each foot with some great effort and squelched after Ianto.

“Ok Tosh,” Ianto yelled into his comm over the sounds of the storm. The rain was driving horizontally in under the protection of his hood. “We’re in. Which way?”

“The monitor seems to suggest it’s within a few metres of where you’re standing,” Tosh responded. “Not sure what we’re looking for though.”

Ianto withdrew a long, heavy torch from his pocket and shone it over the wet grass. The grass was short and pockmarked with puddles of thick, oozing mud and other telltale darker patches which revealed that the field had had recent bovine occupants.

The beam of torchlight came to rest on a patch of juncus, jutting verdantly up from the otherwise flat field. “Could be over there,” Ianto suggested.

Owen took a step towards it, found one foot sliding out away from his body and, unable to maintain his balance, landed face down on the ground. His nose was millimetres from something that didn’t smell like mud. Pride wounded, he batted away Ianto’s proffered hand and attempted to push himself to his feet. His hands slid too and he found himself splayed further across the sodden ground. With renewed resolve, Owen levered himself onto all fours and then gingerly to his feet.

“I fucking hate mud,” he cursed bitterly.

“Opinion noted,” Ianto confirmed, voice muffled as he bent over the patch of reeds, hunting through each frond systematically. “Nothing here anyway.”

Owen was midway through a fruitless attempt to wipe his muddy hands on his even muddier jacket when he spotted the enormous shape looming towards them out of the darkness.

“Holy shit,” Owen spat. “Ianto!”

Ianto looked up and had the good grace to leap backwards when he saw the rapidly approaching creature. “Now might be a good time to run,” Ianto suggested, already on his way past Owen.

“What the fuck is that?” Owen asked as he caught up with Ianto by the gate.

Ianto flung himself over the gate with Owen right behind him. The beast came to angry, bellowing halt against the metal bars. “A bull,” Ianto explained patiently.

Jack’s head popped out from the car. “Everything alright?”

“Owen’s covered in mud and we’ve been chased by a bull,” Ianto called back. “No sign of anything alien.”

Back in the car, Jack raised an eyebrow when he saw the state of Owen but one look at the doctor’s unimpressed expression was enough to keep him silent. Even Ianto bit his tongue, despite having palpitations at the mess Owen was making of the SUV’s interiors.

“Can we go back to Cardiff now?” Owen asked.

“Not until we’ve found the source of the signal,” Jack told him. “Seems like we’re staying the night. We’d better find somewhere to hole up.”

“Don’t worry,” Ianto announced. “I’ve booked us in somewhere.”

Owen turned in his seat and glared at him. “I am not fucking camping.”

“Oh no,” Ianto assured him with a grin. “It’s a hotel this time.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay...life and all that boring grown up stuff got crazy!

Anthony Lord Cavendish sat at the wheel of his 1953 Bentley Continental with his heart sinking. Less than a mile from their destination and the supposedly reliable Rolls Royce engine had spluttered to a halt on a tiny, rutted lane without another vehicle in sight. He sighed heavily, peering out at the rain lashing down and catching in the beam of the headlights.

“You know,” he began hesitantly, addressing his wife, who was wrapped in furs in the passenger seat, a familiar sour purse to her lips. “We could get a more modern car. I’ve been doing some research. Apparently, Toyota’s are rather good.”

“I will not be seen in some Japanese rubbish,” Constance snapped, rather predictably. “Now get out and fix it Anthony!”

With yet another sigh, Cavendish reached for large, sturdy umbrella that was lying across the luxuriously upholstered back seats and stepped out into the rain. He bent down and peered back into the car at Constance. “You’re doing very well dear, by the way.”

Constance pulled her furs even tighter around herself. “Just get on with it.”

The wind hauled at the umbrella as soon as Cavendish put it up and he struggled round to the front of the car, contemplating the bonnet and wondering, for starters, how on earth he was supposed to get it open. As he scrabbled with his fingers on the cold, wet metal, he suddenly spotted the sweep of headlights coming down the bend behind them. He straightened and watched the lights approach. An old VW campervan in lurid yellow chugged around the bend and came to a screeching stop. The head of a young man, scruffy-haired and with a despicable amount of stubble covering his chin, poked out of the driver side window.

“Need a hand?” he called with a trace of a Yorkshire accent.

“Spot of bother with the engine,” Lord Cavendish replied.

“I’ll take a look if you want.”

The young man cut the engine of the campervan and jumped out. He opened the Bentley's passenger side door and smiled at Lady Cavendish. “Evening madam.” He was met a frosty glare which he ignored as he pulled the lever to release the bonnet and shut the door on her.

The man took a quick cursory look at the workings of the engine whilst Cavendish hovered at his side trying to appear as if he at least had some idea what he was looking at. He attempted to shelter them both under the umbrella but the wind was buffeting it about with some force. Rain ran in rivulets through the man’s unruly hair and soaked into the collar of his jacket.

“Can’t see anything obviously wrong,” he concluded. “I could try giving you a jump start.”

“Thank you,” Cavendish replied, as though he knew what a jump start was. Was the young man about to ram the back of the Bentley with his awful campervan? Cavendish hadn’t exactly paid for the car but it would be a shame to damage it.

The young man returned to his campervan and choked it back into life. Reversing a little, he took a run up and swung the van onto the soft verge to bring it round in front of the Bentley. The wheels spun in the grass and sent an arc of mud spattering across the side of the car. Cavendish gave an involuntary wince and hoped that Constance wouldn’t notice it.

Several minutes and several puzzling technicalities later, the Bentley’s engine flared back into life again. The young man was on his way with a cheery goodbye and Cavendish took his place back in the plush driving seat, grateful for the blast of the heaters that had come back to the life with the engine.

“There we are then,” he announced as he rammed the car into gear.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Constance chastised him, as they set off down the lane. “Asking a commoner for assistance. You’ve made a spectacle of yourself.”

Cavenish sighed again. “You’re welcome _dear_.”

-*-

The lights of the Pont-Ddu Country House Hotel blazed warmly out into the stormy night, the only welcoming spot in the dark Welsh landscape. The hotel itself was half built onto the side of a castle that was somewhat less authentic than the proprietors liked to claim on their website and a broad gravel drive swept up from the road and around a turning circle in front of the main doors. 

A taxi roared up the drive in a spray of gravel, the driver eager to collect his fair and head back towards civilisation. Close behind it came an obnoxiously yellow VW campervan which swung into one of the reserved spaces to the right of the building. Julianne Murdoch handed cash through to the taxi driver, instructed him to keep the change, and opened the door. The taxi ride seemed a bargain by London prices and the driver, impressed by his weighty tip, eagerly leapt out to retrieve her luggage from the boot.

“You should have brought an umbrella,” a voice greeted her.

Julianne turned to meet the speaker – a young man in a thin cotton sports jacket with just enough hint of handsome around his blue eyes for her to be intrigued. She gave one of her best flirtatious laughs, tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder, despite the rain, and tilted her hip suggestively. “I see you forgot yours too.”

“How unprepared we are,” the man acknowledged. He removed a newspaper from under his arm. “Allow me.”

She laughed again as he held the broadsheet over their heads and they made a dash for the hotel doors, despite her impractical heels. The taxi driver came grumbling after them with her cases, pausing briefly as he did so to admire the enormous old mud-splattered Bentley that had just drawn up in the car park.

As he dumped the cases in the lobby, leaving his passenger to her flirting, he remerged onto the driveway to the sound of a clapped-out old Ford Fiesta, with rust patches and flaking paint, smoking around the turning circle just as a Mercedes convertible came roaring up the drive, blowing its horn loudly as an instruction for other cars to part for it. The Fiesta’s driver retorted with an equally loud blast of the horn and swung angrily into the space beside it.

A middle-aged woman, dressed as though she had never left the seventies, emerged from the car. “Who the hell do you think you are?” she yelled at the man who was stepping smartly from the Mercedes. In an expensive suit and with his hair slicked back, he ignored her, taking a laptop bag from his backseat and shouldering it as he proceeded into the hotel. The taxi driver watched the woman continue to harass him in an increasingly outraged tone all the way through the doors and into the lobby.

He raised his eyebrows. Only the rich and overprivileged could afford to stay in a place like this, he decided, as he started the engine and pulled off down the drive. On his way, he passed yet another expensive car, though he noted, as he peered in his rear-view mirror, that this one had ‘Just Married’ emblazoned across the back window. He was so busy deciphering the lettering that he nearly collided with the enormous black Range Rover that was pulling in from the main road.

-*-

Owen was still bitching about the mud as they waited in the hotel lobby to check in. Ianto refrained from pointing out that Owen was making a lot of fuss over nothing since he could no longer _feel_ the cold and wet, and Ianto also felt he should be a little more grateful for the posh hotel he had booked them into. Tosh certainly seemed to be impressed, cooing over the size of the lobby and flicking through a glossy brochure advertising the hotel that was on the front desk. Quite why they needed to advertise themselves to people who were already here, Ianto wasn’t sure.

“Ooh, look,” Tosh announced, showing them all the brochure. “They have a swimming pool.”

“Bloody brilliant,” Owen groused. “Doesn’t matter that I’m covered in cowshit ‘cause this place has a swimming pool.”

Ianto rolled his eyes but said nothing. Gwen seemed to be glued to her phone and Jack…Jack was leaning casually on one side of the desk, eyeing up the young couple currently checking into the honeymoon suite. Ianto felt a familiar stab of insecurity in the pit of his stomach which his rational brain scolded him for. Jack was a flirt; always had been, always would be. Didn't change the way he felt about Ianto.

“Congratulations,” the receptionist told the couple as he handed over a swipe card. “Enjoy your stay.”

They thanked the receptionist, picked up their cases and started up the stairs. Ianto approached the desk with his brightest smile, noticing that the man was rather disdainfully inspecting the muddy puddle that Owen was leaving on the period floorboards. “Booking for Jones,” Ianto announced.

The receptionist clattered manicured fingers over his keyboard and then ran a finger down his screen. Jack was still staring. Perhaps it was the receptionist he had his eye on, Ianto thought. “Ah yes,” the receptionist announced. “Jones. Five rooms.”

“That’s right.”

The receptionist ran through the dining options with him, got Ianto to sign an agreement regarding mini bars and pay-per-view television, which he thought he was less likely to regret since Owen was unable to partake in those pleasures these days, and then handed over the key cards.

“Here we are,” Ianto announced as he distributed the cards. “Floor two. I think we’re all next to each other.”

Owen was already heading for the stairs as Jack took his key and tilted his head with a questioning look that Ianto ignored. Yes, Jack, you’ve got your own room, he thought at him irritably. Because automatically assuming we would be sharing would make us a couple which is a label you told me you hate. Outwardly, though, he said nothing but picked up his holdall and followed Owen up the stairs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not the best chapter but it's finally done...thank you for bearing with me!

“Well, this is nice!” Gwen announced as she sunk into one of the plush armchairs in Jack’s hotel room. “I could get used to this.”

“As good a place as any to set up base,” Ianto agreed, dumping an armful of computer equipment on the desk.

Tosh refrained from questioning why Gwen was relaxing in an armchair whilst she and Ianto hauled equipment up from the SUV past an increasingly suspicious receptionist. Owen had been granted permission to shower and change and Jack was prowling around the room, peering in cupboards and behind curtains as though he was either giving it a very thorough security check or had simply never stayed in a hotel before. 

Tosh headed back downstairs for what she hoped would be her final journey. She dashed out into the rain, grabbed yet another carry case from the boot of the SUV and hurried back inside, passing Ianto on his way in. Their journeys in and out of the hotel lobby had left the polished wood a little slippery and Tosh felt her feet slide as she approached the stairs. Hands and arms occupied by the case, she began to lose her balance when a pair of strong hands steadied her. She looked up into a pair of bright blue eyes. The owner of them smiled.

“Thank you,” Tosh smiled back.

“Any time,” the man replied, letting go and taking a step back. “You need a hand?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Ok then.” He smiled again and Tosh ducked her head, feeling her cheeks warm as she scurried away up the stairs. What was the matter with her? Since when had she been the sort of person to blush when a man smiled at her?

She shook her head and rolled her eyes at herself as she shouldered her way back into Jack’s hotel room and dumped the case down with the others.

“So what do we do with it now?” Gwen was asking, turning the tracking device over her hands, sitting forward in the armchair now, at least looking like she was trying to work.

Jack was still pacing, hands in pockets. “Wait, I guess,” he replied. “It might become active again.”

Tosh stood with her hands on her hips and looked around the room. Her gaze came to rest on Ianto who was…. “Ianto – is that our coffee machine, from the Hub?”

Ianto looked up from where he was plugging in and adjusting a bulky, cumbersome coffee machine. “It is.”

“You know that hotels usually serve coffee, right?”

Ianto merely raised an eyebrow at her as if she was insulting him to suggest that he would ever deign to drink coffee made by someone else. Tosh shook her head with a fond smile and opened up the nearest case.

*

The only way Owen knew that the shower water was warm was because the entirety of the luxurious en-suite bathroom was filled with steam. He held one hand under the steady stream of water and watched as it bounced off his pale skin. He didn’t shower often these days. There seemed no need as he didn’t sweat and, if he was honest, he was a tiny bit worried about water damage. But even without a sense of smell, he had enough pride not to walk around covered in cowshit.

Shutting off the water, he stepped out on the tiles and grabbed a towel. Rubbing a clear patch on the steamed-up mirror, he examined the face he no longer needed to shave. He couldn’t help his eyes straying downwards, to the gaping wound in his chest. He resisted the urge to poke at it and walked out into the room to find some clean clothes.

A few moments later, he was dressed and heading back to work. As he left his room, he found another woman fumbling with the lock of the next-door room. A room Owen was fairly sure had been allocated to Gwen.

“Any reason you’re trying to break into my friend’s room?” he asked.

The woman threw back her head and gave a vivacious laugh. “Oh, silly me,” she said. “This isn’t my room. I’m always getting so confused.” She backed away from the door and looked up and down the corridor. “This is room 27. I thought it was…. Oh, never mind.” She gave another laugh and stepped closer to Owen. In her impractical heels, she towered over Owen who had simply been watching her performance with the boredom of a man who had seen this kind of show too many times before. “If you’re interested,” she continued, lowering her voice and eyelids and placing one had on Owen’s chest. “I’m in Room 35. Just down here.” She pointed down the corridor.

Owen took a step back, bitterly flattered. “Cheers. I’ll bear that in mind.” He brushed past and continued on to Jack’s room.

He opened the door to find the Jack lying back on the bed, Gwen sprawled in an armchair and Ianto and Tosh fussing over the equipment. Owen sank down into the other vacant chair.

“Smelling a little sweeter now, Owen?” Gwen asked with a grin.

“You tell me,” Owen shot back. “You’re the one with the functioning sense of smell.” Gwen looked a little contrite at that.

Jack sat up suddenly. “So, the situation is that we have a weak signal but we can’t track its origin, yes?”

“Correct,” Tosh confirmed.

“And the Rift is being remotely monitored?” Jack asked.

“It is,” Ianto agreed, holding up his PDA with one of his shit-eating grins.

“Then I suggest,” Jack announced, leaping up off the bed with a flourish. “That we enjoy some dinner on Her Majesty’s expenses.”

*

The storm was still raging outside and dinner was made all the more atmospheric by the dramatic flashes of lightning outside the windows and the ominous flickering of the lights now and then. Owen sat sulkily watching the rest of the team eat, eyes rolling with every flicker of the lights. “If we have a power cut, I am seriously going to kill someone,” he declared.

“At least we’re not camping,” Tosh reminded him, in an attempt to lighten his mood.

Owen simply glared at her and turned his attention to watching the other guests in the dining room. There were six other tables laid up for dinner. At one sat the honeymooning couple who had been checking in when they had, tucked away in a corner and making gooey eyes at one another. A posh old couple had swept in after everyone else, loud and demanding, ordering food that wasn’t on the menu and then expressing outrage that they couldn’t be served. On the table just behind Torchwood, some city slicker was dining alone with his laptop open in front of him. He stopped a passing waiter.

“Do you have a password for the Wi-fi?” he asked curtly.

“I can go and get it for you sir,” the waiter said. “But I’m afraid the signal isn’t much good in the restaurant.”

“Bloody typical,” the man muttered. “The phone signal’s shit too.” As if to disprove him, his phone began to ring loudly. He shoved it straight against his ear. “Morton.” He listened for a moment. “Yes, I told you to sell those earlier,” he snapped. “What? I can’t hear you. The signal’s crap here. Say that again. What?” His voice grew louder, as though shouting into his phone would help boost the mobile signal.

Owen realised he was staring and looked away, only to find his eyes meeting those of the eccentric-looking woman on the next table. “Hideous, isn’t it?” she said, leaning across and speaking in a stage whisper she obviously intended for Morton to hear. “Ruins a good meal having someone shouting into their cellphone.” Morton shot a bitter look her way, threw down his napkin in a heap and strode out of the restaurant, still yelling into his phone.

Owen nodded in agreement but said nothing more. He was trying to place the woman’s accent and finally decided that it had a South African twang. The woman leant across further and stuck out a hand. “Vanessa Thomas,” she introduced herself.

“Owen Harper.” He shook her hand, hoping she didn’t find his grip too icy cold.

She nodded at the group of them. “Work thing?”

“Yeah,” Owen agreed.

“Me too,” Vanessa said. “I’m a writer. Travel writer. Got a book on Wales coming out.”

“Reasons to Visit the Arse-End of Britain?” Owen suggested.

“I heard that!” Ianto protested.

“If you want local history and all that crap, Ianto’s your man,” Owen explained.

“I might just take you up on that offer,” Vanessa said, smiling. She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

Owen raised the solitary glass of water he had in front of him, just for show. There were only two other diners in the restaurant. The woman he had met in the corridor earlier, who was stealing glances at him over the rim of her wine glass, and a handsome if rumpled young man who seemed absorbed in a paperback novel. The lights flickered again and Owen lent back in his seat and wondered, not for the first time, just what the hell they were doing out here.

*

“I was thinking of trying the pool out,” Tosh announced when they had all finished eating. “It’s been ages since I went swimming. Anyone else game?”

“Not for me, thanks,” Gwen said, frowning down at her mobile phone. “Not at this time of night.” Still absorbed in her phone, she wandered out of the restaurant.

“Swimming’s not my thing,” Owen said.

“I think the bar is calling me,” Ianto added, already halfway out of the door, Jack hot on his heels.

As Owen and Tosh began to follow them through to the bar, the rumpled young man approached Tosh. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you were thinking of a swim. Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” Tosh told him, a curious smile on her face that Owen couldn't recall seeing before.

Before Owen could comment, they had left together. Owen stared after them, unsettled. Shaking the feeling off, he made his way next door and found Jack sitting alone on a sofa in the bar and Gwen on her way out. “I’m off to stand on the roof to try and find enough signal to phone Rhys,” Gwen explained as she passed him.

Owen sank down next to Jack just as Ianto reappeared with two glasses of amber liquid. Owen tried not to be too jealous. He’d all but forgotten the taste of alcohol now, anyway. Ianto had something tucked under his arm.

“Look what I found!” he announced excitedly, taking the box from under his arm and putting it down on the low coffee table.

Owen looked at it. “Chess? Really?”

“Good work,” Jack said, ignoring Owen’s jibe as he leant forward and began unpacking the box and setting up the board.

“You two are massive nerds, you know that right?”

“You’re just jealous of our intellect Owen,” Ianto retorted, taking a sip of whiskey. “And anyway, Tosh can play us both at the same time on different boards and still win.”

“Speaking of – where is Tosh?” Jack asked.

“Swimming, with some guy,” Owen muttered. Looking around, he noted that all the guests from the restaurant, bar the one currently making moves on Tosh, had made it to the bar. Vanessa was scribbling in a notebook, Morton was still yelling into his phone, the honeymooners were snuggled into a corner and the old couple were sitting in a bitter silence that only years of a loveless marriage could produce.

As Jack and Ianto began their chess game, Owen settled back into the sofa cushions, resigned to yet another evening of mind-numbing boredom, when he saw the old guy stand up suddenly.

“Where are you going?” his wife asked.

“I have something to do,” he said. “Won’t be long. Will you be alright dear?”

“Yes,” she hissed, catching Owen watching them. “Don’t fuss.” He left the room.

Next, Owen watched Vanessa put down her notebook and sidle closer to Morton. “Surely it can’t be all work, work, work, can it?” she asked him.

He looked up her irritably. “It can in my line of work,” he replied.

“And what is your line of work?” she asked.

“I work in the City,” he explained tersely, with the arrogance of someone who thought that everyone in the world should know that 'the City' referred to London and that working in the city meant finance.

“I see. You make money from money,” Vanessa surmised.

“Something like that,” he agreed.

“What qualifications does one need for a job like that?” she pushed.

“I went to Oxford,” he revealed.

“And before that?”

“Harrow School.”

“Harrow? Where’s that?”

Morton waved a dismissive hand. “In…uh, Essex.”

“And what exactly is it that you do in the City?”

“I work for RBS. Investments.”

“I see.”

Vanessa seemed to have run out of questions. Owen couldn’t quite work out why she was so interested in the man. He suspected that she was just trying to get under his skin. Morton looked like the sort of man who would walk a wide arc to avoid someone like Vanessa in the street. She went back to her notebook and Owen’s gaze drifted over the lovebirds.

The man stood up. “I’m just going to fetch something from the room darling,” he told her, bending to kiss her forehead. “Can I fetch anything for you?”

“No thank you, I’m fine.” She smiled dopily up at him.

“Won’t be long.” He kissed her again and left the room.

Owen picked up a paper from the coffee table. It was several days old but it seemed to be the only thing serving as entertainment around here. He became aware of movement out of the corner of his eye and saw the woman from earlier come sashaying over. She perched herself on the arm of Ianto’s sofa and pretended to take great interest in their chess game.

“I think chess is so terribly clever,” she announced.

“Do you play?” Ianto asked politely.

“Oh no.” She threw her head back and laughed in the same way she had done with Owen earlier. “I would never have the patience.” She extended a well-manicured hand. “Julianne,” she introduced herself.

Ianto took her hand. “Ianto,” he said.

Jack thrust his hand across the table and flashed one of his high-wattage smiles. “Jack Harkness.”

“Pleasure,” Julianne practically purred. “Don’t expect to see two such well-dressed men in a place like this.”

Owen snorted from behind his paper, lowering it a little. “Well-dressed might be the correct euphemism,” he agreed sarcastically.

“Indeed?” Julianne arched an exquisitely manicured eyebrow at that. “One wonders if they both dress so well all the time?”

“Certainly not,” Jack assured her. “We’re very open to…other styles of dress.”

Owen looked across the table and caught the look of panic in Ianto’s eyes. Of course Harkness would be up for it but Ianto looked as though the thought of a threesome was the most terrifying idea he’d ever considered.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Julianne said, smirking as she moved away. Jack grinned and Ianto shot him a poisonous look.

The young honeymooner reappeared and stopped by Julianne’s table. They exchanged a few casual words that Owen couldn’t catch before he returned to his new bride. Vanessa stood up abruptly, stretched ostentatiously and left the room. Frustrated and bored, Owen tried to focus on the article in the paper in front of him.

*

Tosh could feel her muscles relaxing as she slid through the warm water. Reaching the end of the pool again, she came up for air, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes. She rested her arms on the edge of the pool and bobbed there for a moment. Her companion, whose name was Rudy, she had discovered, splashed up to her with a lazy backstroke.

“Nothing like it for stretching out the back,” he said, coming to rest beside her.

“I forgot how much I enjoyed swimming,” Tosh agreed. “No time for it with my job.”

“What do you do?” Rudy asked.

“Computer programming,” Tosh lied smoothly.

“Cool,” Rudy replied. “You here with work then?”

“Yeah. Team bonding thing,” she lied again. “What about you? What do you do?”

“I’m a doctor,” he told her.

“And what brings a doctor to a place like this?”

Rudy laughed, running one hand through his hair, leaving it hanging over his forehead. “Oh, I’m just a stranger, passing through.”

Tosh was about to push him further when she was interrupted by a loud scream. Instantly, she was on high alert – years as a Torchwood operative had taught her that a scream usually meant it was a work night. She pushed herself out of the pool and grabbed the towel that she had left on a lounger. “We should go…” 

*

“Nooo, it’s a nice place,” Gwen laughed into the phone. “Very posh.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Rhys’ voice crackled down the phone line as Gwen paced the lobby and imagined him slumped on the sofa ready to dig into whatever he had found in the freezer now he knew she wasn’t coming home tonight.

“No, it’s supposed to make you feel wildly jealous,” Gwen teased. “I’m bunking down with Jack – you don’t mind, do you?”

“You better bloody not be!”

“Why - don’t you trust me?”

“I don’t trust him,” Rhys retorted.

Gwen’s witty reply was cut off by a loud scream coming from the landing above her. “Gotta go Rhys,” she said. “Sounds like trouble. Love you.”

She hung up just as Vanessa came flying down the stairs. “There’s been a murder!” she yelled, arms flailing dramatically. Before Gwen could respond, the whole lobby was filled with guests and staff pouring out from the bar.

Vanessa led the assembled masses up the stairs and into one of the rooms. The old man was slumped over his desk, a knife handle protruding from his back. There was more screaming as everyone crowded in to get a look and Gwen’s police instincts kicked in.

“Everyone, this is crime scene,” she announced. “Can I please ask you all to leave?”

She shepherded them back out of the door. Jack took one look at what was going on and turned to her. “We need to get out of here now,” he insisted. “The last thing we need is to get mixed up in a murder investigation.”

Just then, Tosh entered the room, hair wet and wrapped in one of the hotel’s luxurious dressing gowns. Wordlessly, she held up the tracking device which was going beserk.

“Hate to break it to you Jack,” Owen announced from where he was bent over the body. “But this guy wasn’t murdered with any human weapon.”


	4. Chapter 4

Owen’s face had taken on the expression that only a doctor examining an unusual cadaver could be expected to wear. Jack watched him closely as he poked and prodded Lord Cavendish’s body, checking for signs that other medical professionals might not be so familiar with but which were staples for a Torchwood case. The handle of the knife sticking out his back was almost inconsequential. It had, as Owen had immediately concluded, been thrust into the corpse after death; planted, they had to assume, to throw suspicion away from the actual murder weapon, which had left three scorching holes through the victim's chest.

“Looks like he was writing something,” Gwen said, holding up a blank notepad. Jack raised a questioning eyebrow and Gwen rolled her eyes. “You can see the impression of the words in the paper underneath,” she explained. “You’ve obviously not read enough detective stories,” she admonished, as she bagged up the notebook and continued her search of the room.

Jack returned to hovering over Owen. “So?” He was always impatient to know what he was dealing with.

“My initial conclusion,” Owen said, drawing out each word simply to wind Jack up. “Is that not only is this weapon alien, so is the guy.”

Jack nodded, his suspicions confirmed. “Any idea of species?”

Owen shook his head. “Not something I’ve seen before but from my preliminary examination I can tell you…I ain’t seen a human with teeth like this before.”

Owen tilted back Cavendish’s head and prised open his jaw with gloved hands. Covered neatly with a set of false ones were the alien’s real teeth – two rows of small but jagged triangular points.

Jack scrunched up his nose and waved a hand in the air, frustrated. “There’s gotta be a joke about dentistry in there somewhere.”

“Jokes aside, it definitely looks like one of our cases,” Owen said. “Possibly the one we’ve been tracking?”

“I don’t think so,” Tosh interjected. Now changed back into her clothes, she was still examining the tracker. “This thing’s still going crazy.”

“Perhaps whatever it’s tracking is still in the room,” Ianto suggested, popping up from behind the bed. He was on his hands and knees, gloves on, assisting Gwen in conducting a meticulous search of the room. “Or inside the body?”

“Won’t know that until I do an autopsy,” Owen said.

“Or maybe it’s tracking the murderer?” Gwen put in.

“And the murderer’s still in the room,” Ianto added helpfully.

Jack shot him a dark look but Ianto obliviously went back to searching under the bed. Gwen and Tosh exchanged a doubtful glance but all pairs of eyes gave a swift appraising sweep over the wardrobes and towards the en-suite.

“Anyway,” Jack said, bringing their focus back to him. “Owen – you need to find somewhere to cut this guy up properly. Ianto – make a list of the guests and make sure no one leaves. You and Tosh can start interviewing them all. Start with the grieving widow. Gwen - keep searching here.”

“And what are you going to do Jack?” Gwen asked.

Jack gave a small shrug. “Case the joint.”

“Nobody talks like that you twat,” Owen told him.

Jack frowned. “Remember when you lot used to respect me?”

“That was before you used phrases like ‘case the joint’, sir,” Ianto explained, snapping off his gloves as he left the room.

“Yeah, and I’ve got a better idea,” Owen said. “You can get me a body bag from the SUV for this guy.”

*

“Will this do?” asked the receptionist, unnecessarily snooty for someone whose guest had just been murdered. He opened the door to a cramped office. There were two ratty old chairs, an empty desk and not much else, besides a thick layer of dust.

“It’s fine,” Ianto assured him, only a little disappointed that he didn’t have a library with wingback chairs and a whiskey decanter in which to conduct his interrogations. Still, life couldn’t all be like the movies. “Could do with another chair though,” he added. “And perhaps some water and glasses?”

The receptionist sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Tosh placed the tracker down on the desk and sat down in one of the chairs. It creaked ominously. “Not the nicest room in the world.”

“You prefer the grunge décor of the Hub, do you?” Ianto joked.

“True,” Tosh agreed with a small smile.

“You’d better hide that,” Ianto suggested, nodding to the tracker. “Don’t want anyone to know that we might be tracking them.”

“I was just going to suggest that,” Tosh assured him with a laugh. She pulled out a stiff drawer in the desk and moved aside a rusty holepunch to insert the tracker.

There was a knock on the door and it opened before either of them could tell the other person to come in. It was the receptionist, back with another equally dilapidated-looking chair. He dumped it down and dusted off his jacket with a grimace. “Dr Farrell is outside,” he told them. “He wants to see you.”

Ianto looked at Tosh but she just shrugged. “Send him in,” she said.

A young, blonde-haired man poked his head around the door. Ianto had noticed him dining alone earlier. He couldn’t help also noticing the blush on Tosh’s cheeks as she smiled at him.

“Not interrupting, am I?” the man asked.

“Not at all,” Tosh assured him quickly. “Ianto – this is Rudy. Rudy – Ianto.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Rudy said, shaking Ianto’s hand warmly.

“Likewise,” Ianto replied curiously.

“Actually, I wondered if I could show you something?” Rudy asked, turning to Tosh. “It could be important.”

Tosh looked at Ianto and now it was his turn to shrug. “Sure. You go – I can get started here without you.”

“Thanks, Ianto.”

He had no chance to reply before Tosh had skipped out of the room.

*

The rain had eased off now and only a faint drizzle was coming down, buffeted about by the strong winds that were howling around the old hotel. There was a distant rumble and Tosh looked towards it. Out in the grey darkness, a flicker of lightning lit up the mountains across the valley as the storm moved off to the west.

“Here,” Rudy announced, stopping in front of a flowerbed.

“What am I looking at?” Tosh asked.

“In the mud,” Rudy prompted, pulling aside wet shrubs to emphasise his point.

Tosh leant forward and peered at the sodden ground. And then she spotted it. A large footprint, muddy water already pooling in it. Her gaze tracked along the ground and saw another. She stood up and turned to Rudy. “And you just happened to be out here looking in the flower borders?” she enquired sceptically.

Rudy shook his head. “That’s Lord and Lady Cavendish’s window up there,” he explained, pointing to the first-floor window. “Just thought I’d do a bit of poking around.”

Tosh regarded him for a moment, wondering if she should believe him, but there was something so wonderfully earnest about his explanation that she couldn’t help trusting him. She ignored the voice telling her that there was another reason she was so keen to take him at his word. She laughed. “You’ve read too much Famous Five,” she teased.

“Fine, be like that,” he replied lightly. “It could be important.”

“It could be,” she agreed. “I’ll let my team know.”

“About that,” Rudy said. “Who exactly are your team? I mean – you just took over a murder investigation. That doesn’t sound like computer programming to me.”

“The police need computers more than ever these days,” Tosh told him. “We’re…specialists, that’s all. I can’t really tell you more than that.”

Rudy gave a small laugh, his face illuminated softly by the lights emanating from the hotel windows. “I had a feeling you were going to say something like that.” He shrugged and smiled at Tosh. “Maybe it doesn’t really matter, anyway.”

*

“I’m not sure there’s much I can tell you Detective Sergeant,” Lady Cavendish told Ianto, staring at him coldly across the desk.

“Perhaps not,” Ianto agreed diplomatically. “But he was your husband and it is usual procedure to interview those close to the victim.”

“Fine.” She adjusted her furs. “You may ask your tawdry questions I suppose, but I have nothing to hide.”

“Right.” Ianto stared at her, wondering if this was all an act. She didn’t seem particularly grief-stricken. He tried to search his memory for her immediate reaction when everyone had burst in on the body but she was lost in crowd. He had watched her with her husband at dinner and in the bar afterwards and it was true that they didn’t seem to have been the most affectionate of couples. Did she know her husband was an alien, he wondered? Was she an alien? Ianto found himself staring at her teeth.

“Well,” she barked, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Your questions, Detective? I don’t want to be here all night, you know.”

“Yes, of course.” Ianto cleared his throat and consulted his notepad. Best not to lead with the alien questions, he decided. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to murder your husband?”

Lady Cavendish regarded him with a withering gaze. “No,” she said with emphasis.

“Any reason anyone might want to murder your husband?” Ianto tried.

“They may have thought he was rich,” she said calmly. “I understand money is a great motivator to murder.”

“They may have thought he was rich?” Ianto repeated. “But he wasn’t?”

Ianto held eye contact as Lady Cavendish considered her answer. “Titles don’t come with the money they used to,” she answered after a moment.

“Your husband was in debt?” Ianto prompted.

“It’s bad form to discuss money in public,” she replied in clipped tones.

Ianto rubbed his forehead, incredulous. “Yes, but this is a murder investigation,” he reminded her.

Before she could come up with a reply, the door opened and Jack swept into the room. His eyes flicked over the scene, taking in Ianto and his interviewee.

“Lady Cavendish,” Jack greeted her, taking her hand in his. “My condolences.”

Lady Cavendish snatched her hand back. “Who the devil are you?” she demanded.

“My boss,” Ianto explained. “Detective Inspector Harkness.”

“He’s a Yank,” she observed bluntly.

“So they say,” Jack agreed with a grin.

“I don’t know what this country is coming to,” she announced, standing up. “If you’ve quite finished gentlemen, I’d like to retire to bed.”

“That’s fine,” Ianto told her resignedly. “If I have any more questions, I know where to find you.”

She peered down her nose at him. “Yes,” she replied. “I daresay you do.”

Jack stared at her departing back and whistled through his teeth. “Well, she’s certainly a piece of work,” he commented.

“I’ll say,” Ianto agreed. “It’s like she…swallowed the part of stuck-up aristocrat from some period drama. I didn’t think people like that really existed.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jack said, perching himself on the corner of the desk. “Where’s Tosh, by the way?”

“Oh, that doctor guy she went swimming with dropped by and said he had something to show her,” Ianto explained. “So I said I’d get started without her.”

“Hm.” Jack didn’t seem too impressed by that but any further thoughts were cut off by a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called.

The receptionist entered. “There’s a Detective Inspector Frank Scott here,” the receptionist announced. He didn’t wait to find out if they wanted to see the visitor but turned straight on his heel and left the Detective Inspector to find his own way in.

“Thanks for making a start, lads,” the policeman said in a thick Welsh accent as he entered. “But I’ll be taking it from here.”

Jack shook his head, almost laughing at the prospect. “No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will,” the policeman insisted. He was wearing a long brown overcoat and carrying…was that a trilby Ianto could see in his hands? He removed a warrant card from the breast pocket of his suit and held it up. “DI Frank Scott, Merthyr CID. This is my case now and I need to see the body.”

“Sorry,” Jack said. “No can do. We’re Torchwood.”

Scott looked at them blankly. “You’re what now?”

“Torchwood,” Jack repeated. “Call your superiors back at the station and they’ll tell you that this is our case now.”

Scott stared at Jack for a long moment. Ianto looked between the two men. In a battle of wills between Jack and this short, stocky walking cliché of a police detective, Ianto would put all his money on Jack any day. Eventually, the policeman sighed, irritable but resigned. “Fine,” he said. “But this is my patch – we work together.”

“Sure,” Jack laughed in a that’s-never-going-to-happen-but-I’ll-play-along kind of way that Ianto recognised of old. Ianto sighed. This was going to be a long few days.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it!

For want of anything more constructive to do, Gwen was sitting at the desk in her hotel room painstakingly going over the notepad she had found with a pencil. It felt a little like the detective work she used to when she was a kid, desperate for _someone_ in her mundane Swansea street to do something worth investigating, but it was better than nothing. Her search of the Cavendishes’ room had revealed very little – ordinary clothes, ordinary toiletries, and a few unknown fingerprints that could well belong to members of staff. No alien weaponry or helpful records detailing everything about his species and why he happened to be on Earth posing as a member of the landed gentry.

Gwen had run the fingerprints through IDENT1, the police database that Tosh had them hacked into, and come up blank. There was nothing to be done on that front until the cleaning staff returned in the morning and could be fingerprinted. Mind you, Gwen supposed, the murderer could be a member of staff anyway so they couldn’t exactly start eliminating them from the investigation.

Gwen was sure that Tosh had some piece of amazing equipment somewhere that would do this task for her but in a strange way, it was rather satisfying watching the imprints in the paper reveal themselves as she shaded over them. However, nothing became clearer the more she revealed. In fact, it was becoming increasingly apparent that the words she was uncovering were not in any language she was familiar with. Nor were they any alphabet she had ever encountered.

Gwen sighed and sat back to appraise her handiwork. It really was complete gibberish. Painstakingly, she began to transcribe the symbols onto a fresh page in her own notebook. Perhaps the translation software would be able to pick something up from it.

*

From his seat in the back corner of the small office, Ianto was able to take careful stock of the scene in front of him. Ostensibly, he was there to make notes but the notebook was a careful screen that allowed him to unobtrusively observe. No one took any notice of the minute taker. DI Scott was in the chair behind the desk, leaning back with his hands clasped in front of him. He had removed his overcoat to reveal a cheap suit and a loosened tie at his collar. His thinning hair was greying and his cheeks were covered in patchy white stubble. Jack stood behind him, pacing and generally imposing his presence on the room.

Opposite Scott sat Richard and Christine Evans. She was deathly pale and looked as though she might burst into tears at any moment. Her husband held her hand protectively in his own, looking at his wife with concern and at his interrogators with hostility.

Scott’s nose twitched – something of a nervous tic, Ianto had observed – and he chewed the inside of his cheek as he began his questioning. “Did you know Lord Cavendish?” he asked, he voice soft and deliberate.

“No,” Richard answered quickly. “Never met him.”

Jack stopped pacing, hands in pockets. “And you Mrs Evans?” he asked, looking right at her.

Ianto observed a flash of irritation in Richard’s eyes. “She’s never met him either,” he answered for her.

“Is that true?” Jack pushed, ignoring Richard and speaking directly to Christine. She nodded quickly.

“And can you state for the record your reason for staying at this hotel?” Scott asked.

“We’re on our honeymoon,” Richard replied, offering his new wife a smile which she didn’t return.

“Congratulations,” Scott offered. “How long have you been married?”

“We were married last Saturday.”

“What date would that be?”

Ianto observed the cogs whirring behind Richard’s eyes as he considered the question. “The 17th,” he answered eventually.

“And where were you between seven thirty and eight this evening?”

“We were in the bar,” Richard replied.

“You left the bar,” Jack reminded him. “At around seven forty five.”

“I…” Richard frowned. “Yes, you’re right. I went to fetch something from my room.” He shrugged. “I didn’t see anything.”

“You anticipated my next question,” Scott remarked dryly.

Ianto noticed yet another flicker of irritation pass across Richard’s expression. “Look, we’ve had a long evening,” he snapped eventually. “I really don’t see how we can help you. We didn’t even know the man. My wife is very tired and we’d like to go to bed.”

“Are you?” Jack asked Christine.

She looked at him, eyes wide with panic. “Sorry?” she asked faintly, speaking for the first time.

“Are you tired?” Jack clarified.

She looked at her husband as if seeking guidance and then back at Jack. “Yes,” she replied simply.

“Well, I guess we can call you back in the morning if we need any further information,” Jack said.

“Thank you.” Richard stood, half pulling his wife to her feet.

“Don’t leave the hotel,” Scott reminded them as they left, determined to get in the last word. He drummed his fingers on the desk as the door shut behind them. “Well, I don’t think they have anything to do with it,” he announced.

“You think?” Jack asked incredulously. He swivelled round. “Ianto?”

“We need to talk to her by herself,” Ianto surmised. “There’s got to be a reason he won’t let her talk. Too much of a coincidence, him leaving the room at the exact moment of the murder. And anyone getting married has their wedding date ingrained into their memory because they absolutely know on pain of death not to book anything else in around it. No way he’d have to think about it for that long.”

Jack turned to Scott smugly. “See?”

Scott harrumphed. “Well, there may be a few unanswered questions but that doesn’t mean they had anything to do with the murder.”

Jack gave a small, wry smile. “We’ll see. We’ll see.”

*

The body of Anthony Lord Cavendish was laid out in a somewhat undignified manner along the stainless-steel worktop of the hotel kitchen. It seemed the most sterile place in the hotel to set up a makeshift autopsy bay and it was deserted since all the kitchen staff had gone home for the night.

Owen had stripped the body and rolled it onto its front so he could examine the wound in the back. On first impression, it seemed as though there were burn marks around the wounds that had cauterised the broken skin. There were three wounds in total: one that Owen would guess had been made hesitantly, as though the perpetrator was unfamiliar with their weapon; a second, which Owen surmised had been the killer blow, that had gone straight through the chest cavity; and a third which looked to have been slashed wildly, as though just to make sure.

Peering closer, Owen tried to picture what the weapon would have looked like. Something that could slice straight through a whole body and left the wound sealed. Owen smirked to himself. Teaboy would love this. If Owen had to describe the weapon, he’d say it looked something like a lightsaber.

*

“So what do we know about James Morton?” Jack asked Ianto, still standing with his hands in pockets.

Ianto leant back in his chair and crossed one leg neatly over the other. He was enjoying this. He cleared his throat. “He’s not who he says he is,” he announced dramatically.

“And how do you know that?” Scott snapped.

“He told Vanessa at dinner that he went to Harrow School in Essex,” Ianto explained.

“So?”

“So Harrow’s in London,” Ianto explained. “You’d think he’d know where he went to school.”

Jack grinned. “And if he’s lying about that, what else is he lying about?”

“Exactly,” Ianto replied with a matching grin.

Scott gave a derisive snort. “Let’s get him and find out, shall we?”

“Sure.”

Ianto opened the door to find Morton striding up and down the corridor outside. “About bloody time,” he snapped before Ianto could say anything, barging past him and into the room. “Let’s get this over with.” He sat down in the chair, legs sprawled, ankle on knee, as though he owned the place. “I won’t be able to help you though.”

“Well, we’ll make that judgement,” Scott informed him. “Did you know the victim?”

“Never met the sorry bastard in my life,” Morton declared.

Ianto studied Morton carefully. One loose strand of his slicked backed hair had fallen down over his face. His eyes were pale grey and too close together, peering down his aquiline nose with a natural sense of entitlement. His suit and shoes were expensive and he wore them as though he wanted people to notice.

“And can you tell us why you’re staying at this hotel?” Scott continued the questioning.

“I’m here on business,” Morton answered contemptuously.

“What sort of business?” Jack probed. Ianto knew how much the over-privileged rankled Jack. Morton’s attitude would have pissed him off from the get-go.

Morton looked up at him in disgust. “Business,” he repeated.

“Who do you work for?”

“RBS,” Morton replied.

“And what do you do for them?”

“I’m an investment banker.”

“Lot of call for that in the Brecon Beacons is there?” Jack enquired sarcastically.

“I’m meeting investors in Cardiff,” Morton explained irritably. “Thought I’d stay out in the country for some fresh air.”

“Seems plausible,” Jack said with a twitch of his eyebrow.

“Are we done here?” Morton snapped, ignoring the jibe. “I have nothing to do with this and I have things to do.”

“Of course.” Scott gestured towards the door. “We know where to find you if we need you.”

Morton stood up and started to leave.

“One more thing,” Ianto called out.

Morton turned, one hand on the door handle, and looked at Ianto in annoyance as though he had forgotten he was in the room. “Yes?” he snapped.

“Do you know Richard Evans?”

Morton paused, a hint of something passing behind his eyes. “Who?”

“Richard Evans,” Ianto repeated.

“Never heard of him,” Morton said quickly. He left the room and slammed the door behind him.

Jack turned to Ianto. “What was that about?”

“I watched him when he came into the dining room,” Ianto explained. “Richard recognised him, I’m sure of it.”

Jack grinned again. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” he asked Ianto.

Ianto shrugged. “You don’t have an almost complete collection of ‘The Three Investigators’ without picking up a thing or two.”

*

Tosh and Rudy had dried off the patio furniture and were sitting out on the balcony, still listening to the distant storm moving away. It was cold now that the sky was clearing but Tosh found that she didn’t notice.

“Well, since you can’t tell me anything about your job, what about your life outside of work?” Rudy asked.

Tosh shrugged vaguely. “Not much to tell really. My job’s pretty full on.”

“Boyfriend?” Rudy asked.

Tosh shook her head with a shy smile. “No.”

Rudy smiled back. “Good.”

“I could be married,” Tosh teased. “Or have a girlfriend.”

“True,” Rudy conceded. “Are you married? Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No,” Tosh admitted with a little laugh.

“Good,” Rudy repeated.

“What about you?” Tosh asked.

“No, no one in my life either,” Rudy told her.

“Good,” Tosh echoed and now they both laughed. “So,” she began, trying to steer the conversation to less awkward ground. “Is this a holiday then, or what?”

Rudy shrugged. “I guess you might call it a holiday. It’s lasted a little while though.”

“Something you’re avoiding back home?”

“Possibly.” Rudy looked away from her, out across the lawns in front of the hotel to the dense forest beyond that screened the hotel from the road. In the grey moonlight, Tosh could see the mountainside beyond rising up, its rocky outcrops silhouetted against the inky sky. Rudy looked back at her, his expression distant. “Or maybe I’m still looking for something.”

“Such as?”

Rudy shook himself and brought a smile back to his face. “I had family who lived in this part of Wales. I suppose I’m just trying to get back to my roots.”

“Sounds like fun,” Tosh said.

“Yes, it’s been interesting,” Rudy agreed. “But enough about me. What about your roots?”

*

“Julianne Murdoch,” Jack repeated, thinking. He was perched on the edge of the desk with his hands in his pockets. “The one who wanted to have a threesome with us?”

“Oh, you would remember her,” Ianto grumbled.

“Of course,” Jack agreed. He leered at Ianto suggestively. “And by the way, I notice you didn’t say no.”

“I don’t know what the polite way to decline a threesome is,” Ianto replied tersely. He rubbed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, checking his watch to see just how late it was getting. There was a small window just above his head and the stark office light was bouncing off the impassively black panes.

Before Jack could continue down the threesome path, Scott re-entered the room with Julianne herself in tow. Tossing her hair over her shoulder as she sat down, she beamed when she recognised Jack and Ianto, placing a slender hand over her chest in mock surprise, purple fingernails bright against her pale skin. “Oh, it’s you two,” she laughed. “What a coincidence.”

“Isn’t it?” Jack drawled, shooting a look at Ianto which he studiously ignored.

Scott glanced between the three of them quizzically but no explanation was forthcoming. Shaking his head, he rounded the desk and sat down. “Let’s start with the questions, shall we?” he suggested.

“Let’s,” Jack agreed with a smirk.

“Did you know Lord Cavendish?” Scott asked.

“No,” Julianne said. “I think we moved in very different social circles.”

Everything she said was with a hint of a laugh and a flick of the head. Ianto felt as though she was trying to flirt with, well, all of them at once, though her words didn’t quite match her tone or the fluttering of her eyelashes.

“And can you let us know why you’re staying at this hotel?”

“I’m an actress,” she told them, as though expecting them to be impressed. She found three blank faces looking back at her. “I’m treading the boards at the Sherman in Cardiff next week,” she continued, unfazed. “Under Milk Wood. I’m taking a few days break beforehand. I always like to get away from things before I start a new show.”

“The Sherman?” Ianto repeated.

“Yes.” Julianne’s voice turned sultry as she looked over at Ianto. “You know it?”

“I know of it,” Ianto mumbled, looking hastily back down at his notebook.

“Do you know any of the other guests at the hotel?” Jack asked.

“Not currently.” She lowered her voice again. “Though there are a few I might like to get to know.”

“I’ll bet,” Scott muttered under his breath. “Well, it seems like you can’t really help us Miss Murdoch,” he said. “We’ll let you go. Sorry to have kept you up so late.”

“Oh, not at all Inspector,” she assured him. “I’m a bit of a night owl. I’ll be up for some time yet.” Firing one more suggestive glance over her shoulder at anyone who might be interested, Julianne left the room.

Scott leant back in his chair and turned to Ianto. “Any wondrous insights?”

“She’s English,” Ianto stated bluntly.

“Yes, I’m not keen either,” Scott agreed. “But I don’t think we can pin a murder on her just because she’s English.”

“The Sherman is renowned for supporting the Welsh arts,” Ianto elaborated.

“Mm,” Jack murmured appreciatively. “This Sherlock Holmes thing is really turning me on.”

*

Owen was just finishing up his autopsy when the kitchen doors swung open and a man in an ill-fitting suit shambled into the room.

“Sorry mate,” Owen called out. “This is a restricted area.”

The man flashed a warrant card at him. “DI Frank Scott,” he introduced himself. “I’m working with you on this case.”

“You are?” Owen asked sceptically.

“You can call DI Harkness to corroborate if you like,” Scott suggested.

“DI Harkness,” Owen snorted.

“Problem?”

“Not at all.”

Scott put the warrant card away and leant down over the body. “So what can you tell me?”

“Not a lot.” Owen gestured to the body, which was lying on its back now with the chest cavity cut open.

“Cause of death?”

“Multiple stab wounds,” Owen lied.

“Anything else of note?”

Owen shook his head casually. “Nope. Just your regular run-of-the-mill slightly overweight old rich man.”

Scott nodded sagely. “The murder weapon?”

“No sign of it, as far as I know.”

“Fine. Keep me posted if anything else turns up. I’m going to head off for the night.”

Scott left with a cursory nod and Owen relaxed. He wasn’t sure just what Jack was playing at but if this DI Frank Scott thought Jack was also a policeman, he wasn’t in on the whole story. Owen wasn’t in the business of telling any old copper his Torchwood secrets, not without a very clear directive from Jack. He turned and looked back at the body. What the hell was he going to do with it now?

*

Rubbing her arms against the cold, Tosh was beginning to notice the lights gradually flickering off in the rooms of the hotel. She’d forgotten to put her watch back on after her swim and wondered what the time was. She and Rudy had discussed every possible topic under the sun without getting any closer to the real truth of why either of them were staying at the hotel. Still, at least there hadn’t been any awkward pauses.

The door behind them scraped open, cutting off the flow of their conversation, and Ianto appeared on the patio. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said apologetically. “But Jack wants to see us all upstairs.”

Tosh looked at Rudy and pulled a face. “Sorry. Work calls.”

He smiled. “Goodnight Tosh.”

“Goodnight.”

Rudy remained on the patio, staring out across the gardens, as Tosh followed Ianto inside and up to Jack’s room. It was almost stiflingly warm inside after the cold fresh air outside though the lights were dazzling to her eyes that had grown accustomed to the darkness.

Up in Jack’s room, Owen and Gwen were lounging in the chairs whilst Jack leant up against the wall. He raised an eyebrow when Tosh entered the room. “Good of you to join us Tosh,” Jack remarked. “I hope you’ve got lots of notes from your interrogation of Dr Farrell.”

“Some,” Tosh said awkwardly as she sat down on the bed, feeling her face warm. Ianto perched beside her.

“So, now we’re all here,” Jack continued. “Owen – what can you tell us?”

“Not sure of the species,” Owen reported. “But the basic anatomy is similar to humans – a few differences, such as the teeth, a lack of nipples and a few differences in the plumbing.”

Jack shook his head at Owen’s choice of words but chose not to react. “Any further thoughts on the murder weapon?”

“Yeah. Three stab wounds, possibly by someone unfamiliar with using it, and it seems to have cauterised the wound, like some sort of laser.”

“So…like a lightsaber?” Ianto suggested, his eyes lighting up.

“Knew you’d love that one, Nerd Boy,” Owen mocked. Ianto’s delight faded to a pout.

Jack laughed and turned to Gwen. “Found anything Gwen?”

She shrugged. “A few fingerprints. I ran that note I found through the translator and it’s come up blank.” She handed her transcription to Jack. “You recognise it?”

Jack studied the note and shook his head. “Nope.” He handed it back to her. “And Ianto – a summary of the interviews.”

Ianto flipped open his notebook. “Lady Cavendish claims not to know of anyone who might want to murder her husband or why. Strangely unaffected by his death. Unclear at this stage if she knew he was an alien or if, indeed, she is an alien herself. Richard and Christine Evans – not your typical honeymooners. James Morton – lied about his past. Julianne Murdoch – possibly not who she says she is, either. None claim to have ever met Lord Cavendish before.”

“Thanks Ianto.” Jack turned to Tosh. “Anything from Dr Farrell?”

Tosh shook her head quickly. “He’s just passing through the area. Didn’t know the guy.”

“Right.” Jack pushed himself away from the wall, ran a hand over his jaw and folded his arms. “It’s getting late and no one’s going anywhere tonight. I suggest you all get a good night’s sleep – we’ve got a lot more questions to ask in the morning.”


	6. Chapter 6

Tosh splashed water over her face, letting the cool drips collect on her eyelashes and run down her cheeks. She hung her head over the sink as the water trickled off, refreshingly cool. She wasn’t sure why her skin was so warm tonight. Dabbing roughly at her face with one of the hotel’s soft towels, she left the bathroom.

Too restless to sleep, she kept playing her conversation with Rudy over and over in her head, wondering if he had been sincere, or if he had some ulterior motive. She cursed Torchwood and her own insecurities for making her doubt the attentions of everyone she met. Her thoughts strayed briefly to Owen too – had he been jealous? Or had she invented that? Did she want him to be jealous?

Tosh stood at the window, feet sinking into the plush carpet, and pulled aside a corner of the heavy curtains. The lights from the hotel shone out a little way over the grass, still glistening from the earlier rain, but left the rest of the grounds in shadows. Someone walked into view. Tosh would recognise that coat anywhere. It was Jack, coat billowing, hair perfect, as he strode across the hotel lawn.

Tosh watched as Jack paused for a moment, staring dramatically out into the darkness and then, with a shake of his head, he turned and walked back into the hotel.

Suddenly, something flashed in the corner of Tosh’s eye. Three times in quick succession, from the trees beyond the lawn. Then nothing. Frowning, she stared at the place it had come from. Still nothing. She kept her eyes on the same spot for some time, straining to see something – anything – but there was nothing. Only darkness and gently swaying treetops outlined against the night sky.

Tosh closed her eyes and sighed, letting the curtain drop back. She must have imagined it. With a yawn, she climbed into bed. Maybe she was ready for sleep after all.

*

No matter how many times Gwen rearranged her pillows, she just couldn’t seem to get comfortable. She never could when she stayed away from home. For all her adventurous spirit, she just loved her own bed and nothing else would do. Of course, it helped that her own bed had the attraction of having Rhys in it. She thought about him now and hoped he had actually made it to bed rather than passing out in front of the telly as she so often found him when she got in from work.

Since sleep seemed to be evading her, she let her mind stray onto the case. She pictured the note she had found and puzzled over how she could interpret it. There must be some way. People had broken codes before. Her mind to tried to cling to half-remembered facts about the Rosetta Stone that she’d studied in primary school. Was there something there that could help her? She realised that she could put her mind to rest by fetching her computer and looking it up but somehow she couldn’t motivate herself to actually get out of the bed, even if it was uncomfortable.

It was eerily quiet in the hotel. They were so far out of civilisation that there wasn’t even the omnipresent sound of traffic outside. Gwen could actually hear the ticking of her own watch. She wasn’t even sure she’d known that it ticked before. An owl hooted somewhere outside her window and Gwen had to suppress a giggle. Was someone out there with a sound effects box? She didn’t think owls actually hooted at night except in horror movies.

Another noise caught her attention. It was muffled but coming from within the building. Was that a scream?

Instantly alert, Gwen drew back the covers, picked up her key card and crept across the carpet to her door. She eased her door open and tiptoed into the corridor. Paused. Silence. She sneaked along the corridor, stopping outside each room. Behind the door of Room 32, she heard a noise. Gwen held her breath as she listened. It was the sound of a someone crying.

Gwen frowned, considering her options. She supposed there was no law against crying in a hotel room. No reason for her to burst in. Still, she couldn’t just let it go. She raised her hand to knock on the door when it suddenly swung open. Richard Evans stood in the doorway, still fully dressed.

“Oh, hello,” Gwen greeted him, slightly embarrassed to be caught loitering outside his room in her pyjamas.

Richard plastered a look of mild bemusement on his face but Gwen hadn’t missed the suspicious hostility that had been briefly there beforehand. “Hello,” he greeted her back, standing so that he filled the doorway, giving Gwen no sight of the room behind him. “Can I help you?”

“I just…” Gwen pulled an apologetic face and took the plunge. She supposed that there was no reason for her to conceal the reason she was there. “I thought I heard someone crying.”

Richard kept the same neutral, pleasant expression on his face, though it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “My wife,” he said, gesturing behind him. “She was a little upset about something. She’s ok though. Thanks for your concern.”

“Oh, right.” Gwen backed away from the door, realising that she wasn’t going to get any more information. “Sorry to intrude.”

“Not at all,” Richard assured her mildly, and shut the door.

Gwen stood for a moment in the corridor, shivering slightly - cold in just her pyjamas and bare feet. It could be the truth, she told herself. Not everyone crying was a reason to be suspicious. Her police training had made her sceptical of everything. She listened again. The crying seemed to have stopped. Resolving to try and put the incident to the back of her mind, at least until morning, she returned to her room to attempt to get some much-needed sleep.

*

Owen sat at the desk in his hotel room with the sound of gunfire and zombies dying filling the oversized headphones he was wearing. He was aware of the irony, but it was his only option for getting through yet another long, sleepless nights. His porn collection had become torture and there wasn’t anything decent on TV tonight. It was a toss-up between a zombie shootout on his computer or lying on the bed wondering if this was going to be it for the rest of eternity or, even worse, stewing over Tosh and the handsome very-much-alive doctor she seemed to have picked up. With a renewed determination, Owen caught a zombie in his virtual sights and blasted it against a wall, the sound of its dying screams and the simulated machine gun fire drowning any other unwelcome thoughts his undead brain might decide to conjure up for him.

*

Ianto’s eyes suddenly snapped open. He stared out across an unfamiliar cream carpet. Rubbing his eyes, he rolled onto his back, spread starfish limbs out across the enormous bed and sighed. There was something so lonely about sleeping alone in a king-sized bed. There it was again. The noise that had woken him up. A scrabbling outside his door.

Ianto slowly and silently eased himself into a sitting position. His gun was on the opposite bedside table and the bed seemed even wider now. A sudden thought occurred to him and he slid a hand under the duvet, breathing a sigh of relief when he realised he was wearing underwear. He really didn’t want to fight, well, whatever this was, naked. He definitely didn’t want to die naked.

The scrabbling stopped and the door swung tentatively open. A familiar figure was framed in the light from the hallway.

Ianto sighed, irritated. “What are you doing?”

“I came to see you,” Jack said, shutting the door behind him and throwing his coat over a chair.

Ianto leant back, propped up on his elbows, and glared at Jack across the gloom. “Why didn’t you knock?!”

“I didn’t want to wake you up,” Jack explained, kicking off his boots.

“Well, I’m awake now!” Ianto pointed out.

“Good!” Jack grinned and bounced onto the bed.

*

Christine Evans sat up in bed, her shoulders shaking as she tried to swallow down her sobs. Richard sat at the dressing table, fingers flying over the machine in front of him as he frantically scanned through frequencies for any contacts, face bathed in its mauve glow. His fingers caressed the shining chrome controls and the light on his features flickered periodically as the green radio waves undulated across the screen. Christine choked back another cry that she couldn’t contain, letting it out as a wavering wail.

“Oh, for goodness sake, woman,” Richard snapped, finally dragging his attention away from the scanner to look at her. “Will you stop snivelling?”

Christine let her fingers stray to the red mark across her collarbone. “Sorry,” she breathed.

“If you couldn’t handle this, you shouldn’t have come,” he advised her harshly.

“I can. I can,” she assured him, grinding the heels of her hands into her eyes and taking a deep, shaky breath. “It’s just…not how I imagined it would be.”

“Life rarely is,” Richard informed her coldly as he turned back to the scanner.

“You’re not how I imagined you’d be,” she murmured quietly.

Richard gave a small, hollow laugh. “It’s just business, sweetheart,” he told her cruelly. “Just business.”

*

Vanessa’s hotel room was filled with the sound of her fingers punching frantically at the keys of her laptop, a recent upgrade from her trusty old typewriter. The computer was more portable and negated the need to type up reams of notes when she returned from her travels but she couldn’t help missing the old Remington. She’d never quite mastered the art of touch typing, to the eternal frustration of Miss Phipps, the woman who ran the typing pool she’d entered when she left school in 1965, unsuited to teaching or nursing and without a man to marry and keep house for. The 1960s were a world away.

Vanessa had left her job as a secretary after three months, with only a rudimentary grasp of the keyboard which she was employing now – a combination of index fingers and left thumb that could nevertheless type at some speed. From the secretarial college, she’d made her way back to her childhood home of South Africa, sick of the English weather and stuffiness. There she’d been blessed with the fortune left to her from her father’s mining business. He’d not done her much good in life but in death he had been very kind. A woman with a fortune in the 1960s could go places. And she had. Writing. Investigation. Everything she had always dreamt of. A few books published along the way – not much to speak of in the way of sales or fame, but enough to keep her ploughing on.

But here, in this hotel, could be the discovery that finally made her reputation. The book that put her on the map – on the timeline of influential writers. She’d be studied in schools and colleges and universities. Her books would come flying off the shelves. She’d be quoted all over the internet and interviewed on all the classy arts shows and at all the literary festivals that had previously snubbed her. This was it. Her moment.

*

“I know where I’ve seen her before,” Ianto gasped, rolling away and leaning over the side of the bed.

“Huh?” Jack had that adorably confused post-climactic expression on his face, as though his brain wasn’t quite ready to process rational thought yet.

“Vanessa,” Ianto explained, shuffling through a pile of books stacked on the floor beside his bed. He always picked up any books that seemed a little bit 'Torchwood' to check and cross-reference them, and had brought a selection with him, just in case he might have a moment to read on the trip. He grabbed the book on crop circles and opened the cover. “There.” He jabbed a finger at the photo on the dust jacket. “Carol Brown.”

He looked across at Jack who was gaping at him, aghast. “ _That’s_ what you were thinking about?!”

Ianto rubbed the back of his neck guiltily. “Not the whole time. It just came to me.”

Jack looked mightily offended. “I see.”

Obliviously, Ianto threw back the covers and made his way across the room to collect his laptop, bringing it back to bed. He opened it and fired it up. Jack flopped back into the pillows with his hands folded behind his head. “And people think I’m the workaholic.”

Ianto ignored him, fingers tapping at the keyboard as he searched the internet for the author Carol Brown. “There we are,” he said, swivelling the laptop so that Jack could see the screen. “Carol Brown. Writer of books on extra-terrestrials and the paranormal.” He scrolled through a list of her books. “Mostly UFOs and crop circles. Nothing genuine from the looks of it.”

Jack sat up and looked at the screen, frowning. “And who did she say she was?”

“A travel writer,” Ianto said. “Writing a book about Wales.”

Jack snorted. “Like anyone would believe that.” He looked across at Ianto. “You think she knows about our alien guests?”

“She did discover the body,” Ianto mused. “Seems too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed. “I think we’re going to have a few more questions for Carol Brown in the morning.”

*

Julianne was just thinking about giving up and going to bed when she heard the soft knock on her hotel room door. She smiled, gave herself one last spritz of perfume, adjusted the very short dressing gown she was wearing so that it fell open just perfectly, and went to open the door. She leant suggestively against the doorframe and smiled broadly. “Come on in.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got there! It's hard to write a stormy story during a heatwave...

Breakfast was accompanied by yet more rain. A dense curtain of fog hung so low over the land that even the trees on the far side of the lawn were obscured behind it. Gwen cracked the top off her boiled egg with a sense of great satisfaction and happily dunked a slice of toast into the runny yolk. Beside her, Jack was launching into a full English with gusto, Tosh was wincing her way through half a grapefruit, Ianto was eating a croissant with his napkin tucked into his collar and Owen was lounging back in his chair, fingers idly twisting an untouched glass of orange juice.

Gwen’s eyes scanned around the room. On the next table, James Morton was bellowing into his mobile yet again. Richard and Christine appeared to be the picture of wedded bliss, holding hands and gazing lovingly across the table at one another. Vanessa was eating kippers alone, her nose stuck in a paperback novel. To her right, Lady Cavendish was poking disdainfully at a plate of pallid scrambled eggs.

Rudy entered the room, eyes roaming until they lighted on Tosh, and his face broke into a broad smile. Gwen wondered if he was even aware there was anyone else at her table. “Morning,” he greeted Tosh.

Tosh gave him a matching beam. “Morning.” Gwen noticed the pink tinge to her cheeks and distinctly heard the derisive snort that Owen gave beside her.

Rudy headed over to the buffet, helped himself to a mountain of bacon and sat himself down at the table with Vanessa. She didn’t even look up from her book. Gwen took stock of all the people eating breakfast. No Julianne, she noted, but otherwise all were present and accounted for.

There was a sudden commotion at the door as a man in a chef’s outfit marched over to their table, wielding a pie slice. “You lot!” He came to an angry halt beside the table, waving the implement to emphasise each word. “Who exactly is responsible for the dead body in my freezer?!”

The teams’ eyes all turned to Owen. He spread his hands in innocent protest. “I didn’t know where else to put it,” he explained. “Didn’t want it going off.” He turned back to the chef. “I’m sorry mate. I know it must be a bit of a shock.”

“You took my food out of the freezer,” the chef retorted, revealing the true source of his irritation. “My salmon fillets’ve all defrosted and they’ll be ruined!”

Jack sat forward. “We’ll pay for any ruined food.”

“What good is that?” The chef snorted and began to retreat. “The salmon’s off tonight!” he announced dramatically before flouncing out of the room.

Gwen looked round but the interruption didn’t seem to have bothered the other guests. There was a abrupt clattering of fork as Lady Cavendish threw down her napkin and pushed back her chair. “I can’t eat like this,” she announced loudly. “With that awful racket. Those things ought to be banned.”

It took Gwen a moment to realise that she was talking about James Morton and his mobile. Gwen had tuned it out. Lady Cavendish swept out of the room but Morton carried on talking, oblivious.

*

“Ok - plan of action.” Jack leant against the window frame and addressed his team, who were variously sitting and standing around his room. Owen was flopped in an armchair, Gwen and Ianto were perched on the end of the bed and Tosh was standing by her computer equipment. “Gwen and Ianto – check any record you can get your hands on to find out more about our guests. Owen – check our own records for anything that might relate to the victim’s species. And Tosh, you can help me with some more interviews – if you can stay away from Dr Farrell for long enough.”

Jack saw Tosh’s cheeks turn red as she nodded quickly. Ianto was already on his feet, laptop in hands. Gwen stifled a yawn.

“I’m going to check on Julianne,” Owen told everyone, standing and heading for the door.

“Why?” Tosh asked quickly. Too quickly, Jack thought.

Owen shrugged. “She wasn’t at breakfast. Just want to make sure she’s ok.”

“I bet you do,” Tosh muttered.

Jack shook his head, wondering why the two of them insisted on playing each other off against one another instead of just admitting how they felt. Of course, Owen’s undead state may have something to do with their reticence and Jack was in no position to lecture anyone on being open with his feelings. But still. Petty jealousy was not a good look.

*

Owen took a deep breath before knocking softly on Julianne’s door. He waited a while but nothing happened. Looking furtively back and forth up and down the corridor, he knocked again, a little louder, and then put his ear to the door. He could hear nothing from within. He was just debating trying the handle when suddenly the door swung open.

Julianne stood in the doorway, her dressing gown barely fastened and her makeup and hair looking as perfect as ever. Her expression shifted from irked to flirtatious as soon as she realised who was standing outside her door. “Oh, it’s you,” she purred, leaning against the doorframe. “I was wondering if you were going to take me up on my offer.”

The growl of frustration that Owen let out internally was deafening. Outwardly, he gave a tight smile. “I just came to see if you were ok.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You weren’t at breakfast.”

Julianne threw her head back and gave one of her overblown laughs. “Oh, you are sweet,” she told Owen. “I’m just not a morning person.”

“Oh, right.” Owen stepped back from the door, resigned. “Well, if you’re ok…”

Julianne gave a fake pout. “You’re not staying?”

“Things to do,” Owen told her through gritted teeth, clenching his fists painfully tight as he strode off down the corridor.

*

“You still working on that note?” Ianto enquired as he put a cup of coffee down at Gwen’s elbow and went back to his computer.

“I know it seems pointless but I can’t seem to let it go,” she confessed.

Ianto decided not to point out that Gwen had just accurately encapsulated her entire approach to her job. He took a sip of coffee as he pulled up yet another database that they probably shouldn’t have access to. “With only one piece to go on, it’s probably impossible you know.”

Gwen pulled a face at him. “Alright Mr Downer.” She leant back in her seat. “There’s this one symbol – the swirly one with dots – that seems to come up more than the others. I’m trying to figure out possible words, assuming it’s an e, because that’s the most common letter, right?”

“Only in the English language,” Ianto pointed out. “You can only use that rule to translate code based in English.”

“Oh.” Gwen slumped down, frustrated. “Back to square one.”

“Sorry,” Ianto apologised cheerfully, picking up his mug again. “You could always help me with this?”

*

Tosh had been in with Jack interviewing the staff for several mind-numbing hours before she managed to excuse herself for a toilet break. Jack was continuing to grill them in her absence though it seemed like they all had the same answers – they had neither seen nor heard anything and no, they didn’t know or recognise any of the guests. Tosh tiptoed along the corridor, feeling for the first time in her life like a naughty child sneaking around behind her parents’ backs. She was about to turn the corner onto Rudy’s corridor when she heard whispered voices.

“This is your last chance,” a male voice hissed. “I’m warning you.”

“I don’t know why you’re coming to me,” a woman’s voice replied.

“You might be playing the little woman here but I know you were in on it together.”

Tosh risked a peek around the corner and saw James Morton and Christine Evans across the corridor, standing close together in a doorway.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Christine told him, trying to walk away.

Morton put a hand on her shoulder to restrain her. “I want my money,” he growled.

“You lost that fair and square.”

“You conned me,” he snapped. “And I’m within my rights to go to the police about it. They’re here too, you know.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she replied. “You wouldn’t risk it.”

Frustrated but thwarted, Morton dropped his hand from her shoulder and Christine hurried off down the stairs. Tosh flattened herself against the wall until she heard Morton’s footsteps retreat down the corridor and out of earshot. What the hell was all that about?

*

“So – what do we know?”

Jack turned away from the rain-battered window and looked at Ianto enquiringly. Ianto settled down on the end of the bed and flipped his notebook open.

“James Morton,” he began. “Doesn’t work for RBS, didn’t go to Oxford and didn’t attend Harrow School. I called them all, asking for references. Plenty of James Mortons on various databases but none of them seem to match our guy. So his identity isn’t stolen – it’s completely faked.”

“Do we know who he really is?” Owen asked from his usual position, sprawled in one of the armchairs.

“I need to get a picture to run through the facial recognition software,” Ianto explained. “But no leads so far.”

“Great,” Owen observed flatly.

“It’s something,” Tosh pointed out, trying as usual to put a positive spin on things. "And I overheard Morton arguing with Christine Evans about money, so that's something else to go on."

“The others?” Jack interrupted before Owen could make any further scornful comments. He seemed to be in a particularly insulting mood today.

“No record of Lord or Lady Cavendish either,” Ianto went on, turning the page in his notebook. “There is a Julianne Murdoch starring at the Sherman next week, but she’s Welsh and definitely not our Julianne.” Ianto held up the headshot of a petite, lithe young woman with close-cropped blonde hair. "And the Evanses don't seem to exist either."

“Is anyone here who they say they are?” Gwen wondered incredulously.

“Us?” Owen suggested, head lolling over the back of the chair to make eye contact with Gwen who was perched on the windowsill. He gave a tight, thin smile with no warmth in it. “Though that’s debatable…”

“And lastly, Vanessa,” Ianto continued, ignoring him. “The only one I could find a real identity for. She’s actually Carol Brown, author of books about all things alien.”

“You think she’s here for us?” Gwen asked. “Or for them?”

Ianto shrugged. “Hard to tell.”

“Only one way to find out,” Jack declared. “I think it’s about time we had a little chat with Vanessa.”

Jack led the way down the corridor, the rest of team trailing in his wake, as so often was the case. He rapped loudly on Vanessa’s door. There was no reply and no movement on the other side. He looked at the others and gave a casual shrug, holding his wrist strap against the lock as he pressed a few buttons. The light on the lock turned green and buzzed. Jack pushed open the door and marched into the room. He came to a sudden stop, the rest of the team piling unceremoniously into his back.

“Looks like we’re too late,” he announced as he surveyed the scene in front of him. The others all peered around him to get a look. In front of them, Vanessa lay slumped over her bed, a knife handle protruding brazenly from her back.


	8. Chapter 8

The knife was a decoy again. Circumspectly, Owen rolled the body over to reveal one smouldering wound in the dead centre of Vanessa’s chest. Next, he checked her mouth. After pushing and prodding quite thoroughly, he had to conclude that the set of crooked, filling-riddled plaque-stained teeth were the woman’s own. And human.

“Thoughts?” Jack appeared beside him.

“She’s human,” Owen said. “As far as I can tell. But killed the same way as the other guy.”

“Look at this!” Gwen announced from the other side of the room where she was searching through the chest of drawers. She was waving a red folder in the air. “Newspaper clippings,” she explained, flipping through the folder. “I didn’t think anyone did that anymore.” She turned the folder round to show them all. “All about crop circles. They go back to the 1970s.”

“She’s old school,” Ianto concurred, half hidden inside the wardrobe. “See?” He appeared with a pile of photographs and began to shuffle through them. “Some familiar faces,” he mused, holding up long-lens snaps of a number of the hotel guests. “Oh – and this might be useful too.” He put the photographs down and produced a chunky old laptop. Ianto flipped open the lid and pressed the power button. It required a password. “Tosh.” Ianto passed it to her. “Could you do the honours?”

In days gone by, before she worked at Torchwood, Tosh would have used her own skills and savvy to hack the laptop but she had become lazy. She would take the laptop back to Jack’s room and attach a highly sophisticated scanner that would crack the password in a matter of seconds. She doubted that Vanessa – or Carol, or whoever she was – would have had the ability to install any security other than a basic password but it was always best to be cautious. One false move with a manual hack and a sophisticated system would have her locked out forever.

Making her way down the corridor with the laptop tucked under her arm, Tosh spotted Rudy approaching from the opposite direction. She couldn’t help smiling and was comforted when she saw him break into a wide smile too.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he announced with a grin.

“Sorry,” Tosh said. “Working.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “There’s been another murder.”

Rudy’s eyes widened but he seemed to enjoy the conspiratorial nature of her information. “Really?” he replied. “Which one of them this time?”

“Vanessa,” Tosh told him.

“What?” Rudy’s tone suddenly turned sharp. “Who?”

“Vanessa,” Tosh repeated, unsure of herself.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Rudy looked away, seemingly lost in thought, muscles shifting in his cheeks. Tosh watched him uncertainly.

“I should leave you to work,” he blurted and turned, marching away from her down the corridor.

Tosh watched him go, her heart sinking. Why was he acting so strangely? Had she misplaced her trust yet again?

*

“Just the man I was looking for,” Jack announced as he descended the stairs into the lobby and saw Frank coming in through the main door. “There’s been another murder.”

“Who?” Frank asked.

“Vanessa,” Jack revealed. “Or not Vanessa, as it turns out. She was here under a false identity.”

“Oh, right.” Frank seemed very disinterested, peering here and there around the lobby as though looking for someone, twisting his trilby round and round in his hands.

“You…want to see the body?” Jack asked him. There was no harm in Frank seeing this one, Jack reasoned, as Owen had confirmed that she was human.

“The body?” Frank stared at Jack blankly.

“Yeah.” Jack frowned. “It is kind of usual in a murder investigation.”

“You think the murders are connected then?”

“I’m pretty certain that they are,” Jack assured him, partly amused. “Same weapon…same hotel. Pretty big coincidence if not.”

“Right.”

“I gotta say,” Jack observed. “You don’t seem all that interested.”

“No, no, I am,” Frank stated, shaking his head as though jolting himself free of a trance. “Let’s go and see that body.”

Starting up the stairs, they found their path blocked by James Morton. He regarded them for a few moments before clearing his throat. “I think I need to talk to you.”

*

Yet again, Ianto found himself squished into their makeshift interview room, notebook at the ready, along with Jack, DI Frank Scott and James Morton. Morton looked a little less confident than he had done the last time he had been in this room.

“What is it you wanted to tell us, Mr Morton?” Frank enquired.

“I saw Vanessa,” he began. “Coming out of Lord Cavendish’s room last night. I went up to get my laptop and she was coming out. I don’t think she saw me.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this when we spoke to you yesterday?” Jack asked in astonishment.

“I wasn’t sure it was relevant,” Morton replied tetchily.

“Really?” Jack raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Really,” Morton repeated back, unimpressed.

“Well, thank you for the information,” Frank told him mildly. “I’m sure it will be very useful.”

“You’re welcome.” Morton started to stand up.

“Though whilst you’re here,” Jack said. “You could clear up a few other things.”

Morton sat back down again and glared at Jack. “Such as?”

“You were overheard arguing with Christine Evans,” Jack told him. “Care to tell us what that was all about?”

“Who told you that?”

“So you admit it?”

“Why would I have been arguing with a woman I’ve never met?”

“Because that’s not true either, is it?” Jack pointed out. “You do know the Evanses. Or at least, you know Richard. You recognised him at dinner last night.”

Morton sighed heavily and closed his eyes. Slowly, he opened them with resignation. “Richard and I were at Oxford together,” he confessed. “We…we were both in love with Christine. She chose him. I suppose perhaps she’s beginning to regret her decision. That’s what we were arguing about.”

“You were heard arguing about money,” Jack told him.

“Whoever told you that must have been mistaken,” Morton replied coolly.

“That’s all very interesting,” Ianto piped up, irked when Morton inspected him again as though he had forgotten that Ianto was in the room. “But you never went to Oxford. It is quite easy to check these things you know,” he explained cheerfully.

Ianto saw Morton’s fists twitch, betraying the anger of a man unaccustomed to being challenged. Or perhaps they were hinting of a more rough-edged background than that which he had invented for himself.

“That’s…” Morton spluttered a little and then gave another resigned sigh, his fists relaxing. “It’s all fake,” he admitted eventually, his accent slipping into one a little more local. “I grew up on a council estate in Newport. Didn’t even get A Levels, let alone university.” He narrowed his eyes at Ianto. “It’s not easy to get ahead when you start so far behind, you know.”

Ianto blinked, realising that he and Morton had more in common than he would like to admit. “So who do you work for?” Ianto asked, deflecting.

“NatWest. I work on the desk in the Cardiff Branch.”

“And Richard?” Jack interrupted. “How do you know him?”

“We went to school together,” Morton admitted. “The rest is true. We both dated Christine. She married him.”

“I see,” Frank said, in a manner that suggested that he really didn’t. “Well, you’re free to go, I think. Thank you for your honesty.”

“Thank you.” Morton paused at the door. “You won’t make this public knowledge, will you?”

“I see no reason to,” Frank assured him. If he didn’t understand, it seemed that he also didn’t much care about Morton’s revelations.

“Thank you.”

As the door shut behind Morton, Jack turned to Ianto, who was staring thoughtfully after him. “More bullshit?” he suggested.

Ianto shrugged. “I know the feeling of trying to make yourself something you’re not.”

Jack snorted and waved dismissive hand. “Oh please. Clearly a sob story. He’s suspicious as hell.”

Ianto shook his head despairingly and stood, leaving the room without another word. Jack looked at Frank, who was busying himself flipping through his notebook, and then back up at the door in puzzlement.

*

Dinner was a very tense affair. Quite frankly, Owen almost wished he had skipped it altogether. Tosh looked as though someone had pissed in her wine and kept glancing painfully at the good doctor Rudy, who was slumped on one hand, poking half-heartedly at his meal with the other. Jack and Ianto had obviously had a lovers’ tiff and were studiously ignoring one another. The rest of the guests sat alone and in silence, shooting suspicious sideways glances at one another. Gwen looked across at Owen and pulled an awkward face. He replied with a barely perceptible shrug.

He was glad when the whole affair was over, even if Rudy had stolen Tosh away with a mumbled ‘can we talk?’ as soon as she had finished eating. After a brief, hushed conversation, presumably full of the Harkness charm, Jack and Ianto seemed to have patched things up and were engaged in a lively game of Scrabble with Gwen in the lounge. They’d invited him to join them too but Owen had better things to do than play fucking Scrabble.

Such as sitting on a damp patio sulking. Not that he would admit to sulking. He was just…contemplating. Life, the clouds that were gathering and obscuring the stars, but definitely not Tosh or the effect his undead status might be having on the irrational feelings he was experiencing right now.

As he sat there, focusing on the approaching storm, he became aware of voices emanating from the bushes to his right. Quietly, Owen sat forward and strained his ears to listen over the rustling of the leaves.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” a woman’s voice hissed.

“Just…be patient,” a man replied. Owen frowned – he recognised that thick Welsh accent.

“I’m being patient,” the woman snapped. And now Owen could place those unmistakable haughty tones, too. “But I’m stranded here now he’s dead.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” DI Frank Scott replied. “You’re not stranded. I’m still here.”

“I just want to go home,” Lady Cavendish informed him. “And stop telling all these ridiculous lies.”

“And you will,” Frank soothed. “Soon – I promise.”

“Why can’t you tell me what the hell is really going on?” she insisted. “I think I have a right to know.”

“Trust me,” Frank assured her. “You’re better off not knowing. It could compromise the whole operation.”

“Oh, you’re just like him,” she sniped. “That’s what he always used to say.”

“And he was right,” Frank told her. “Now – why don’t you head back in and get some rest? I promise you we’ll be out of this place as soon as possible.”

“Fine.”

There was a rustle of movement and Owen stepped hurriedly back into the shadows as Lady Cavendish walked across the patio and back inside. He crept carefully forwards until he could make out the shape of Frank Scott, standing in the darkness of the bushes. There was the sharp sound of steel on flint and for a brief moment his face was illuminated as he lit up a cigarette. The tip glowed in the darkness as he exhaled a plume of smoke into the heavy sky.

Just what had he been talking about? Owen was about to step onto the grass and confront him when suddenly a figure loomed up out of nowhere and blocked his path.

“Hello there,” Richard Evans greeted him with one of his everyman smiles. “Getting a bit of fresh air too?”

“Something like that,” Owen muttered.

Richard looked up at the sky. “Looks like there’s another storm coming.”

“Yeah.” Owen pushed past him. “Sorry mate – no time to chat about the weather.”

He walked around the bushes but there was no one there. Frank Scott had vanished into the night. Owen sighed irritably.

“Looking for something?” Richard had followed him.

“No,” Owen answered quickly. “Nothing.”

“Tell you what,” Richard suggested. “Why don’t you come for a drink with me and Christine? You look like you could use some company.”

“Ah, no, that’s very…” Owen started.

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Richard insisted cheerfully, clapping an overly affectionate hand on Owen’s shoulder and steering him back towards the hotel. In the distance, there was an ominous rumble of thunder.

Inside, Owen sat in awkward silence at the bar with Richard and Christine. It briefly crossed Owen’s mind that they might be angling for a threesome but on closer examination, Christine looked entirely too strait-laced for that sort of thing. And Richard seemed overwhelmingly heterosexual, if that were possible. It didn’t stop Owen from idly wondering what they would both be like in bed, to distract himself from uncomfortable boredom. Why exactly had Richard been so insistent that Owen join him for a drink? To get him out of the way? Was he working with Frank?

Owen’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Julianne. She swept theatrically into the bar and settled on the stool to Richard’s right. Her arrival was, appropriately, accompanied by a simultaneous flash of lightning and crash of thunder and the heavens opening once more. James Morton, who had been typing furiously on his laptop, swore as the internet went down yet again.

“A vodka martini,” Julianne ordered with a grin, and Owen was hopeful that his evening might be about to get a little more interesting.

*

“You’re going to have to put a word down at some point,” Ianto told Jack as he forfeited yet another turn.

Jack gave him a shifty look. “I will.”

Ianto shook his head, knowing from experience that Jack would just keep exchanging tiles until he could spell body parts or rude words. He’d already made ‘arse’ across the middle of the board.

“Fine,” Ianto sighed. He’d just about forgiven Jack after he had pulled Ianto aside after dinner to ask what he’d done and Ianto had remembered that, for all his talents, Jack couldn’t read minds and actually explained what was bothering him. Jack had apologised but defended himself on the grounds that Ianto was nothing like James Morton and then topped off his apology with a lecherous comment. Ianto had accepted the apology on the basis that it was one of the first times that Jack had both noticed that Ianto was upset and tried to make amends.

Bringing himself back to the present, Ianto contemplated the tiles in front of him. The lounge was quiet tonight. The only other occupant aside from Jack, Ianto and Gwen was Lady Cavendish, who had arrived a few moments ago and was unobtrusively reading a book in the far corner. Ianto smiled to himself as he carefully laid out tiles to spell the word ‘renovate’ to join up with the end of Jack’s ‘arse’.

“Hm.” Gwen considered the tiles on her own rack and eventually, with great ceremony, laid them out on the board. “Read this and weep.”

Both Jack and Ianto twisted their heads so that they could read the word she had put down. “Yeah, that’s not how you spell appetite,” Jack pointed out.

“What?”

“It has two Ps,” Ianto helpfully explained.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Gwen exclaimed, scooping the tiles back off the board. “This is like playing against a pair of walking dictionaries.”

Ianto raised an eyebrow but closed his mouth on the patronising comment about Gwen’s spelling that was about to slip out. Another flash and crash of lightning and thunder rattled the old window frames and punctuated the silence of Gwen’s frowning concentration. There were, Ianto thought, worse ways to spend an evening.

*

Tosh and Rudy hadn’t been able to find the light switch when they came in but it seemed strangely fitting. They sat side by side on the stage in the ballroom in the dark, the only light provided by the occasional brilliant flashes of lightning from outside the window. In their short acquaintance, Tosh had not seen Rudy like this before. There had been no sign of his charming smile all evening.

“Penny for them?” Tosh asked, with half a smile and a friendly nudge.

“Huh?”

“Your thoughts,” she elaborated. “What’s on your mind?”

Rudy didn’t answer but gave a huge sigh. “What’s the point of existence, do you think?” he asked eventually.

Tosh raised both eyebrows. “That’s a big topic for one night.”

“I thought…” He drummed his fingers on the edge of the stage. “I thought all this wandering would help me find…something.”

“And it hasn’t?”

“How can you find something if you don’t know what you’re looking for?”

“I can see how that might be a problem.” Tosh was trying desperately not to let her bemusement cross over into amusement.

“I don’t know.” Rudy sighed again. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Tosh prompted gently. “Has something happened?”

Rudy stared at her for a long moment, his lips working as though he were trying to get words out. Then he clamped them shut, looked away and shook his head. “No,” he said, so softly Tosh could barely hear him. “Sorry.”

He leapt down from the stage and walked quickly towards the door at the far end of the ballroom, leaving Tosh to stare after him in confusion.

*

In the bar, Morton had finally given up on the WiFi and gone to bed. Julianne had managed to liven up Richard’s conversation but Christine had grown quieter than ever. Owen hung back, watching the interactions between the three of them. He wasn’t the best reader of human interactions but he was starting to suspect that there might be something more than just a casual acquaintance between Julianne and Richard. Touches and gestures here and there; threads of conversation that seemed too knowing for strangers.

Owen watched Christine too. She, in turn, watched Richard closely, with an expression that could only be described as longing. Which seemed strange for a bride to be directing at her new husband. He was beginning to think that Richard should reign in the flirting – even Owen was sensitive to the impropriety of flirting with another woman in front of your wife. Richard hadn’t even given Christine a glance since Julianne arrived; not even tried to include her in the conversation, which was as vacuous as it was telling.

And as for Julianne herself, it seemed that no one else but Richard existed in the room for her. She appeared to have entirely forgotten all about both Christine and Owen, despite the overtures she had been making towards him since they had arrived at the hotel. Both she and Richard had drunk too much – Owen was keeping a careful count of the drinks consumed by both – whilst Christine had nursed one glass of wine all evening and Owen, for other reasons, had been surreptitiously watering a pot plant with his solitary pint of lager.

“Oh, my word,” Julianne announced loudly, stretching her arms out dramatically. “Look at the time! I must be turning in.” She leant in close to Richard and gave a tinkling laugh. “Need my beauty sleep.”

Richard gave a beery guffaw and half stumbled off his stool as he stood to watch Julianne waltz a little shakily out of the room. Richard spun round and seemed to suddenly notice the other two occupants of the bar.

“Darling,” he slurred, beaming now at Christine. “It’s probably time we went to bed too.”

“Yes dear,” Christine replied, submitting to her husband’s groping grip as he wrapped one arm around her.

“Goodnight Owen,” Richard called.

“Night.” Owen tipped his near-empty glass in a salute and watched Richard steer Christine out of the bar, in much the same way as he had steered Owen into it. For all the doting husband façade, Owen observed, Richard Evans was a man who could control other people remarkably well.

*

Gathering in Jack’s room was becoming something of a ritual. The place looked even less like a hotel room and more like an office than ever, as the Torchwood team gradually moved furniture around to suit their purposes – and their technology. They ran through the events of the day and the revelations about the guests. Top of their plan of action for the following day was a conversation with DI Frank Scott. When they agreed that nothing more could be done that night, Jack dismissed them all to a well-earned rest.

Ianto lingered for a moment as the other three headed off to their rooms, hands in pockets and slightly sheepish expression on his face. Jack looked at him expectantly.

Ianto cleared his throat. “You should, uh, come knocking again in the middle of the night,” he suggested.

“Oh yeah?” Jack stepped in closer, a slow smile of realisation spreading over his face. “You liked that?”

Ianto shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “Something…exciting about sneaking around.”

“I see.” Jack leaned even closer but Ianto ducked away from him and headed for the door. “Might see you later then,” Jack called after him, grinning hopelessly.

*

Owen’s earlier suspicions were confirmed as he left Jack’s room and headed to his own room for the night. He knew the door number, of course, and had been there earlier. There could be no doubt about it. It was Julianne’s bedroom door. And that was Richard Evans sneaking out of it. He did not see Owen as he hurried off down the corridor towards his own room. The honeymoon suite that he was sharing with his new wife.

*

There was no reply when James Morton knocked on Julianne’s door. He looked at his watch. It was 2 am. The corridors of the hotel were in complete silence. There was a chance, of course, that Julianne could be fast asleep, but she had implied, when James had seen her in the corridor earlier, that she would be wide awake and in need of company. He knocked again, quietly. Still no reply.

He was about to knock again when he noticed that the door was not fully shut. Poking it gently with one finger, the door swung slowly open. James grinned to himself. She’d left it open for him. She must be up for it. He shut the door behind him and made his way into the bedroom, freezing when he got there, mouth open in silent horror. There was Julianne, sprawled back on the bed, her face twisted in terror and five gaping wounds in her chest.


	9. Chapter 9

Gwen had just dropped off to sleep when she was hurled jarringly back into consciousness by a commotion in the corridor outside her door. A male voice was shouting and someone was hammering on a door. On autopilot, she swung her legs out of bed and began to pull on yesterday’s clothes that had been discarded over a chair barely half an hour earlier. She yanked her door open to find herself face to face with James Morton’s fist, raised, presumably, to knock on it.

“Oh, thank goodness,” he exhaled, looking uncharacteristically unsettled. “I’ve finally found one of you lot.”

Gwen rubbed one eye sleepily and peered at him from under her bed hair. “What’s the problem?”

“There’s been another murder,” Morton informed her. “This way.”

Gwen trailed after him down the corridor as other doors began to open, occupants peering sleepily and in confusion into the corridor. Owen appeared around a corner, followed shortly by Tosh, and they joined Gwen as she accompanied Morton into one of the rooms. On the bed lay Julianne, her face twisted in frozen despair, her torso riddled with holes.

“Shit,” Owen remarked. “She looks like a piece of Swiss cheese.” He was already pulling on gloves and bending over the corpse.

“When did you find her?” Gwen asked Morton, who was watching Owen with one hand over his mouth, as though he might be sick.

“A few minutes ago.”

“And what were you doing here?”

“I, er…” Morton trailed off, his nausea turning to embarrassment. “She implied…”

“Late night booty call?” Owen suggested loudly over his shoulder.

Morton coughed. “Something like that.”

“Speaking of which…” Owen nodded over Gwen’s shoulder and she turned to see Jack and Ianto entering the room. Ianto was missing his tie, though at least he had bothered to button his shirt; Jack’s was flapping open over his white t-shirt, braces hanging loose by his sides.

“Nice of you to join us,” Gwen teased. Ianto blushed but Jack ignored her, beginning to button his shirt as he made his way over to the bed.

“What have we got Dr Harper?” he asked, instantly in charge of the situation despite his less than professional appearance.

“Same MO as before,” Owen explained. “Although from the look of it, I would say the attack was a little more frenzied. She’s also an alien,” he added, prying her mouth open with his gloved fingers to reveal two rows of tiny jagged teeth.

“Who found the body?” Jack asked as he tucked his shirt in and hooked his braces up onto his shoulders.

“I did,” Morton said.

“He was here for a quickie,” Owen explained helpfully.

“How did you get in?” Jack asked. “If she was already dead, she couldn’t have opened the door.”

“It was already open,” Morton snapped, clearly bristling at the suggestion that he was in some way involved. “And if you haven’t got any more questions for me, I’d like to go and find myself a stiff drink.”

“Be my guest,” Jack told him, with a dismissive hand wave. "We know where to find you."

“There’s something else you should know,” Owen told the assembled Torchwood team as Morton left the room. “I saw Richard Evans coming out of Julianne’s room earlier tonight.”

“Interesting,” Jack mused. He spun on his heel to face Ianto, whose blush was beginning to fade. “Ianto – please locate Mr Evans and let’s find out what he was doing here.”

*

Richard Evans had been none-too-pleased to be dragged out of bed in the middle of the night but had quietly reassured his wife, who was fussing behind him, as he pulled on a complimentary dressing gown and followed Ianto downstairs. Now, he was sitting opposite Ianto and Jack looking, quite frankly, exhausted. Ianto knew the feeling.

“What’s this all about?” Richard asked wearily.

“One of the guests at this hotel has been found murdered,” Jack told him.

“Blimey,” he responded mildly. “Another one?”

“Yes,” Jack confirmed. “Julianne Murdoch.”

“Who?” Richard asked without missing a beat.

“Julianne Murdoch,” Jack repeated.

“The woman you spent all evening flirting with,” Ianto reminded him drily. “The woman whose room you were seen leaving earlier this evening. At a time consistent with her time of death.”

Richard’s shoulders deflated and he sighed heavily. “I didn’t kill her,” he muttered.

“So you do remember her then?” Jack noted.

“We were…” Richard stopped, worried at his lower lip with forefinger and thumb, and looked away. “We were having an affair,” he admitted. “Had been for some time. But I didn’t kill her. She was dead when I went into her room.”

“So why didn’t you raise the alarm?” Jack enquired.

Richard’s head was hanging low, his chin tucked against his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at his temples. “I didn’t want Christine to find out about us.” He opened his eyes and looked up at them with a watery gaze. “I bloody loved her, you know.”

Jack and Ianto exchanged an awkward look. Dare they ask the most uncomfortable question of all? Did Richard Evans know his lover was an alien?

*

Gwen had meanwhile been sent to summon Frank Scott, on the grounds that a new murder might lure him back to the hotel so that he could start to answer some questions. Given the shocking mobile signal, Gwen headed down to reception to phone. The storm was in full swing again outside but the lobby was eerily quiet and lit only by a single standard lamp next to the reception desk.

As she leant over the desk and picked up the receiver, the handles of the hotel’s imposing front doors began to rattle. Gwen froze, staring at them with the hum of the dial tone buzzing in her right ear. The handles worked up and down a few more times and then stopped abruptly. Gwen waited.

Accompanied by an appropriately dramatic crash of thunder, the doors swung suddenly open and Frank Scott stood framed in the open doorway, collar turned up and rain dripping from the brim of his trilby.

*

Tosh jumped violently when she left Julianne’s room and bumped straight into Rudy who was pacing in the corridor outside. She stopped and looked at him curiously, unsure what to expect given his earlier behaviour.

“So there’s been another one then?” he started, breaking the awkward silence.

“Yes,” Tosh replied simply.

“Are you busy?” he asked. “Can we talk?”

Tosh glanced over her shoulder back into the room where Owen was still completing his autopsy. Jack and Ianto had gone to question Richard Evans and Gwen was telephoning the police downstairs.

“For a little bit.” Tosh steered Rudy towards her room.

He followed her in and walked straight to the window, pulling the curtain aside to look out at the storm. A flash of lightning forked across the sky, dazzlingly bright, at the same time as crash of thunder that crackled like gunshots. Tosh waited patiently behind him, wondering if Rudy was about to muse on the futility of life again.

Abruptly, he let the curtain drop and turned back to face her. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” he confessed without meeting Tosh’s eyes.

Tosh sat down on the end of her bed, a familiar disappointment settling heavily in the pit of her stomach. “I had sort of guessed that.”

“I’m sorry,” Rudy said quietly. He had his hands in his pockets and was staring down at the carpet.

Tosh looked up at him. “Do I get to know the truth?”

Rudy gave an almost imperceptible nod and sat down beside her, close but not touching. “I wasn’t here by chance,” he explained, examining his fingernails. “Although I was searching for something. So there’s that,” he added with a wry smile.

“What were you looking for?”

“My mother,” Rudy said. “I never knew her. She dumped me on my father when I was a baby and disappeared.” He was still looking at his hands. “I’d been doing some research online recently and tracked her down. I came here to meet her.”

“And?” Tosh prompted, unsure where this was going.

Rudy finally dragged his eyes upwards to meet hers. “My mother was Carol Brown,” he told her.

*

“You got here quickly,” Gwen told Scott, finally shaking herself into action and replacing the receiver.

“We had a call at the station,” Scott said, stepping into the lobby and removing his hat. “There’s been another murder.”

“Who called you?”

“One of the guests.”

“Which one?”

Scott paused, his face shifting. “Richard Evans,” he plumped for eventually.

“He’s being interviewed as we speak,” Gwen said. “When did he call you?”

“What exactly are you trying to imply?” Scott snapped, one hand straying under his coat.

“I think you have some questions to answer,” Gwen told him, her police instincts warning her to keep an eye on that hand.

But before she knew what was happening, Gwen was dazzled by a bright light and found herself lying on her arse on the floor. Blinking, she struggled upright and saw Frank Scott taking off out of the door.

“Hey!” Gwen yelled, staggering to her feet, her head spinning. She lurched towards the door and out into the rain but it was as if her had been disconnected from her brain. Wiping raindrops out of her eyes, she whirled round, trying to identify where Scott had disappeared to. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky and she spotted him, disappearing at speed, not towards a waiting police car but into the woods on the far side of the lawn. Gwen took a few more steps in his direction but realised that whatever Scott had done to her meant she would not be able to give chase until it was too late.

Frustrated, she squelched back inside, pushing her wet hair back off her face. Her shaking legs gave out on her and she slid down an oak-panelled wall onto the floor, resting her forehead on her knees as she tried to regain her senses. Opening her eyes, she spotted something on the floor a couple of feet away. It was a notebook. Frank Scott’s notebook.

Sprawling forward, she stretched out her fingers and dragged the notebook towards her across the tiled floor. She flipped open the front cover and, even with slightly blurred vision, could not believe what she saw there.


	10. Chapter 10

“Did you kill her?”

Rudy stared at Tosh with open-mouthed shock. “No, of course I didn’t. I hadn’t even worked up the courage to tell her who I was.” His indignant tone had died away by the time he finished his sentence. He looked down at the floor. “Now she’s dead.”

Tosh reached out a hand and took hold of Rudy’s, squeezing sympathetically. “Why was she killed?” she wondered.

Rudy shrugged, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. “I dunno. She was just a harmless kook, investigating all that alien stuff. Surely no one could take that seriously?”

Tosh gave him a weak smile and squeezed his hand again. There was no need for Rudy to know how close he was to the truth.

*

“What the hell?” Jack exclaimed as he and Ianto came around the corner to find Gwen slumped on the floor of the hotel lobby.

He rushed over to her only for her to wave him away. “I’m fine,” she assured him.

“You don’t look fine,” Ianto observed with an eyebrow raised.

“Ok, well, I think I was tasered or something,” Gwen conceded. “By Frank Scott.”

“What?!”

Gwen struggled a little more upright, blinking at the wooziness behind her eyes. “I tried to ask him some questions,” she explained. “The next thing I know I’m on the floor. I tried to chase him but my legs gave out.”

Jack wrenched open the hotel doors and gazed out into the storm. The rain was still coming down in sheets and it was pitch black out there. A gust of wind blew a scattering of wet leaves across the polished floor. He hastily shut the doors. “We won’t find him tonight,” he said. “Not in this storm.”

“Then we’ve lost him,” Gwen sighed.

“No.” Jack shook his head confidently. “He’ll be back. He’s connected to all this.”

“He certainly is,” Gwen agreed. “He dropped this.”

She handed the notebook to Jack who flipped it open. Ianto peered over his shoulder. Jack looked up at Gwen with a grin. “The same language the note was written in.”

“Exactly,” she confirmed.

*

The storm finally blew itself out around dawn and bright sunshine heralded the new day. Thick mist lay across the ground but the trees poked out from above it, reaching up into a cloudless blue sky. The distant mountain tops were finally visible, in all their russet glory.

The Torchwood team headed out across the saturated ground to the woods at the edge of the hotel lawns. Ianto looked down at his shoes in dismay. The damp grass had soaked through to his socks and the shoes would never be the same again. Reaching the trees, they spread out, not really knowing what they were looking for, only that Gwen had been certain Frank Scott had disappeared into the woods last night and Tosh thought she may have seen a light flashing from here the previous night.

Ianto stalked quietly over the spongy bed of pine needles, gun drawn, eyes scanning amongst the dense trunks for any sign of movement, the low-lying fog restricting their vision to just a few metres. The air was full of the scent of pine and humid, as two days’ worth of rain evaporated steadily from the sodden ground. Dripping moisture from the branches above splatted periodically onto the shoulders of his suit jacket. In the corners of his eyes, Ianto could see Jack to his left and Gwen to his right. Beyond them were Tosh and Owen; all of them moving with the same silent efficiency. They could do it when they tried, Ianto mused.

Suddenly, he spotted movement up ahead. Jack had seen it too. They stopped. It was too late. Scott had seen them. He turned and they were off after him.

It was a matter of pride to Ianto that he could outrun Jack. The Hub was plenty big enough for them to compete, clothing optional. Ianto had never realised what a turn-on that post competition adrenalin buzz could be until he met Jack. Time and time again, Ianto had proved himself the faster runner. So it must have been a particular dense patch of forest, or a tree root he stumbled on, because Jack was ahead of him as they sprinted through the wood. As his stature might suggest, Scott was not particularly fleet of foot and Jack caught up with him easily, hauling on his collar, pushing his face into the nearest tree trunk and shoving his Webley into his temple.

“You need to start talking,” Jack growled as Ianto skidded up beside them.

Scott panted heavily, trying to get his breath back with his cheek shoved up against the rough bark. Gwen, Owen and Tosh had now arrived too and had him surrounded. He took a deep gulping breath. “I was expecting this,” he breathed finally.

*

Frank led them to a clearing in the forest a short distance away. In it was parked a small, sleek compact vehicle that, given its angles and unfamiliar technology, could only be a spaceship.

“My ship,” Frank explained.

Gwen peered admiringly around at the smooth, matt-black sides of the ship. “So you’re an alien?” she asked superfluously.

“Yes,” Frank confirmed. “But I’m guessing you already know that?”

“Aliens are kind of our thing,” Jack agreed, apparently also rather taken with the impressive lines of the ship.

Frank rested his palm against a panel on the side of it and a door slid silently open. He stepped inside for a moment and reappeared with a device that was the pair of the device currently residing in Jack’s hotel room.

“We have an identical device,” Tosh told Frank eagerly. “What is it?”

“It’s a tracking device,” Frank replied. “Anthony lost his. I guess you must have found it.”

“What were you tracking?” Ianto enquired.

“An important shipment,” Frank explained cryptically.

“None of this is making any sense,” Gwen interjected, appearing from behind the ship and standing in front of Frank, arms folded. “Tell us the whole story, from the beginning.”

Frank gave a wry smile and set the tracker to one side. “I am a police officer,” he began. “On my own planet. I didn’t completely lie to you.”

“Keep going,” Jack prompted, standing beside Gwen with a similar no-nonsense stance.

“Christine and Richard Evans,” Frank continued. “They enjoy a good heist. This was their biggest. They stole 6.7 million tranters and then left the planet. Only they didn’t realise that their ship had been bugged. Anthony and I followed them here.”

Ianto’s brain was whirring, connecting dots at speed, but he was coming up with more questions than answers. “Where does Lady Cavendish fit into it all?”

“Just a cover story,” Frank told them. “She wanted an off-world trip so we set her up as Anthony’s wife.”

“Hardly inconspicuous identities, were they?” Owen observed.

Frank looked puzzled. “We studied the literature of your planet. They seemed to fit in.”

“We’ll talk later about getting your reading list updated,” Ianto muttered.

“What about the other guests?” Jack prompted impatiently.

“James Morton is a conman,” Frank revealed. “I can only assume he had some score to settle with Richard and Christine.” He shrugged. “The others – I have no idea.”

“Julianne was one of your species,” Gwen told him. “Carol wasn’t.”

“Interesting,” Frank mused, worrying at his lower lip with finger and thumb. “I’ve no idea who Julianne was.”

“So you don’t know who actually killed them?” Jack asked.

“No.” Frank shook his head. “No idea.”

Jack turned to his team. “I think we need to speak to the rest of the guests.”

Ianto grinned excitedly. “Can I gather all the suspects in the lounge?”

“Sure.” Jack shrugged obliviously. “If you think that’s the best place.”

“Oh Jack.” Ianto shook his head fondly as they began to walk back through the trees towards the hotel. “You are so not genre savvy.”

Jack gave Ianto a sideways glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we’ve got some boxsets to watch when we get home,” Ianto explained.


	11. Chapter 11

The suspects had all been successfully gathered in the lounge. Lady Cavendish sat as upright as if she had an iron poker for a spine; James Morton lounged in an armchair with a scowl so deep it looked painful; Christine and Richard Evans sat beside one another on the sofa with a noticeable gap between them, the façade of happy newlyweds finally dropped; Rudy Farrell stood by the window, leaning up against the wall with his arms folded. Frank Scott loitered by the door as Tosh, Owen, Gwen and Ianto took up their positions flanking Jack who stood at the fireplace, centre stage as always.

“I expect you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here,” Jack began theatrically.

“Presumably to tell us what the hell is going on?” Morton snapped.

“Well, yes, actually,” Jack conceded. “And let me start by letting you all in on a secret – I know that you are all aliens.”

The guilty exchange of looks was interrupted by a loud, “What?!” from Rudy.

“Oh - except you,” Jack noted, waving a hand in his direction.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rudy exploded. “There’s no such thing as aliens. My mother…” He cut himself off.

“We’ll get to that,” Jack assured him, before turning back to the other guests. “Now – where were we? Oh yes – you are all aliens and you all have motives for murder.” He turned slowly, giving all the guests a chance to avoid eye contact. “So which one of you is it?”

“That’s outrageous!” Lady Cavendish exclaimed. “And slanderous!”

“Is it?” Jack turned to her. “You were frustrated, weren’t you? Stuck here with a bore; the trip not living up to your expectations.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” she responded icily.

“That you murdered your ‘husband’ and then the others to cover your tracks.”

“I have never been so insulted…”

“Hardly much of a motive,” Morton scoffed, interrupting her.

“Perhaps not,” Jack agreed, turning his attentions to him. “But you certainly had one.”

“What?” Morton snapped.

“Conned out of your money by these two.” Jack indicated Richard and Christine with a thumb over his shoulder. “Worried that Anthony would connect the dots. Jealous of Julianne flirting with all those other guys.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Morton retorted irritably. “I’d only just met Julianne. And I only wanted my money back. I wouldn’t have killed anyone for it.”

“Is that so?” Christine suddenly spoke up, her voice loud and confident for the first time.

“Yes,” Morton replied firmly.

“You’re a lowlife James Morton,” Christine asserted. “I wouldn’t put murder past you.”

“Maybe not.” Jack spun on his heel to face her. “But then again, can we put it past you two? The not-so-happy couple, on the run from the police.” He tilted his head and met Christine’s steely gaze. “Decided to get the cop out of the picture, worried about Vanessa’s questions…”

“That nosy bitch deserved it,” Christine spat.

Richard put a firm hand on her arm. “Christine, stop,” he murmured.

“Oh, what’s the point?” she argued, throwing off his hand. “They obviously know everything anyway.” She looked up at Jack, chin tilted defiantly. “Vanessa saw Richard coming out of Anthony’s room and tried to blackmail us.” She shrugged. “We don’t take kindly to being threatened so we killed her.”

“You bitch!” Rudy yelled, launching himself across the room at Christine. But Ianto was quicker and managed to restrain him, pulling him back towards the window. Tosh joined them, laying a calming hand on Rudy’s arm.

“And what had Julianne done?” Jack asked.

“Oh God, it was you, wasn’t it?” Richard breathed, turning to face Christine. “You killed her.”

Christine looked away and sniffed. “She deserved it too,” she said. “She was a whore.”

“She wasn’t,” Richard protested. “I loved her!” His head dropped into his hands. “She must have followed me here when we jumped planet.”

“And that’s why I murdered her,” Christine explained coldly.

“But…” Richard looked up, utterly confused. “You had no reason to be jealous. You and I – we’re just business partners.”

“That’s what you always thought, wasn’t it?”

“Because it’s the truth.”

For the first time since the interrogation began, Christine seemed to lose some of her confidence. “You always were completely oblivious.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m in love with you Richard,” Christine confessed, with a resigned sigh. “For better or worse, I always have been.”

Richard’s mouth hung open in gobsmacked silence. Frank took that as his cue to step up, handcuffs at the ready.

“Richard and Christine Evans,” he began. “I’m arresting you for the murder of Anthony Cavendish…”

*

Tosh found Rudy in the car park, loading his holdall into the back of his campervan.

“You’re off then?”

“Yep.” He slid the door shut.

“Where to?”

“Going to keep travelling for a while.” He looked away from her and squinted up at the distant mountains.

“I thought you’d found what you were looking for?”

Rudy shook his head. “Not really. Not even sure what I was looking for in the first place.” He leant up against the side of his van and looked at her. “You could come with me?”

Tosh smiled and shook her head. “Thanks, but no thanks.” She looked over at the team, loading up the SUV; caught sight of Owen furtively watching her. “I have a job, and a life,” she explained. “I already found the thing I was looking for.”

Rudy gave a small laugh. “Fair enough. Well.” He pushed himself away from the van and took his keys out of his pocket. “If I’m ever in South Wales again, I’ll look you up.”

“I’d like that,” Tosh agreed.

She watched as he started up the rickety old van and gave a brief wave as he smoked down the drive and out of sight. She heard footsteps approaching across the gravel and turned to find Owen standing beside her.

“You alright?” he asked.

Tosh nodded, still smiling. “Yeah. I am.”

Suddenly, the distant chugging of Rudy’s campervan was drowned out by the roaring of a loud engine. Tosh and Owen looked in the direction of the trees to see Frank Scott’s ship rising from amongst them. The engines sent out jets of heat that distorted the air below as the ship manoeuvred round, and then, with an almighty snarl, shot upwards into the atmosphere, becoming a tiny speck of light which grew smaller and smaller and eventually disappeared.

“That’s that crazy lot banged up then,” Owen observed.

“Yep,” Tosh agreed.

“Come on guys!” Gwen called, already buckled up inside the SUV. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

“Back to civilisation,” Owen agreed, as he and Tosh wandered over to the car for the drive back to Cardiff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Made it!! Remind me never to post a WIP again just because I got overexcited about it. Thank you for all the kudos and comments that have kept me motivated!


End file.
